The One and Only Jessie Bannon
by Akane-Rei
Summary: The Quest Team encounters a familiar stranger years after the tragedy that almost destroyed them all. Work In Progress
1. Prologue: But the Tigers Come at Night

Author's note: in an effort to finish of this fanfiction of mine and renew my love of JQ:TRA, I've been revising previous chapters to help inspire me to finally put in prose the new chapters. As a result of these major revisions, you will find some major changes regarding some of the previous chapters; more specifically, I have deleted the insertion of some poems and songs which I considered to be "fillers." There are two reasons for this: a) they did not add to the chapter in question; b) it just got to be so hard to make the story flow with some of the songs and poems I've chosen. This made the story longer to write because I would end up deviating from my outline.

* * *

**The One and Only Jessie Bannon – A Jonny Quest: The Real Adventures Fanfiction**

**by Akane Rei**

**_The Prologue: But The Tigers Come At Night_**

**_

* * *

_**

**_"Tiger! Tiger! burning bright . . ."_**

He moved quickly, quietly, into the woods. He slowed his breathing and tried to stem his eagerness.

He had found her. At long last, he had found her.

He hurried his strides, his mind intent on his goal, his destiny.

They thought they could hide her from him. All these years, he had lived with the despair that only his kind of tragedy, his kind of betrayal, could bear. But now, now he knew better. They were not going to take her away again. Never again.

_**"In the forests of the night . . ."**  
_  
A lone figure slipped into the camp. He listened to the sounds of the night, crouching, waiting. The darkness cloaked his presence as he padded stealthily by the tents, his footsteps barely making a sound on the dewy grass. He felt a slight breeze disturb the night air, gently flapping his cloak around his legs. He paused slight before slowly lifting a tent flap and looking inside.

He gasped in an almost startled recognition. He knew, just knew that she would be here, within reach; but nothing compared to the reality of having her close. He entered the small tent and crouched before her. He watched the slow rise and fall of her chest, as his own breath strove to follow her deep, even breathing. She was close enough to touch. As if of its own accord, his gloved hand made a motion to caress her cheek only to stop a hairsbreadth away from its destination.

"Soon," he whispered. He closed his eyes and muttered a prayer of thanks at the Fates that had led him to her, to her captors, her supposed caretakers.

They had made it so easy for him. Anyone could have gotten her. Although that made his task much easier, he was enraged by their blatant disregard for her safety. Didn't they know that the world was a dangerous place? Didn't they realize that she must be protected at all costs? She was too precious . . . too precious.

But he was here now. And he would protect her.

**_"What immortal hand or eye  
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?"_**

He reached in his parka and pulled out a small box. Opening it, he retrieved a minute disc-shaped chip and held it in his fingertips.

"It won't hurt much," he said softly, regretfully at her sleeping form. "I promise you, this is for the best."

He saw her toss and turn in her slumber, her face twisted into a frown. He yearned to stroke her brows and smooth the lines away, but he held himself in check. Now was not the time. There would be plenty of opportunities for him to offer his comfort later.

He heard her sigh.

"Soon," he whispered again. "Soon."  
_  
**"In what distant deep or skies  
Burnt the fire of thine eyes . . ."**_

He felt the expected slow rumble beneath his feet.

"It is time," he said to himself.

He took the chip in his hand and gently placed it on her forehead. He watched as it flattened and attached itself there. Five translucent strands emerged from the chip and crept along her forehead. He waited patiently, allowing the device to do its work.

The ground shook again with more vigor this time, jostling her into a slow wakefulness. He watched as she slowly opened her eyes. Recognition dawned in their depths. She opened her mouth to scream at the same moment she swung her arm to deliver a quick blow to his eye, but he was much faster. He quickly restrained her struggling form.

"Don't make me hurt you," he rasped. "Please." And still he waited. He waited for the device to deliver her to blessed sleep. He waited for the rumblings of the earth to get stronger. He was a patient man.

She struggled furiously from his grip and attempted to bite his fingers.

He tightened his hold and looked at her eyes. He was sure the flames of anger in there matched the ones outside.

"Listen to me," he said urgently, pleadingly, "this is for the best."

Still she struggled to get away from him, the hate evident in her eyes.

"Whatever they told you about me," he said, "it's not true. I would never --"

The ground shook once more and an explosion of light brightened the night sky.

**_"On what wings dare he aspire . . ."_**

"It is time," he said again. He looked at the chip on her forehead and saw the green glow that signaled its activation. In no time at all, a spark of electricity traveled through the strands connected to the chip and a spasm seized her entire body and she began to convulse violently.

He held her tighter once again and tried to soothe her.

"It won't last much longer," he murmured gently. "I promise."

Finally, her body went still and she hung limply in his arms, a dead weight.

He took his hand off her mouth and stared at her face. "So peaceful," he breathed. It reminded him of death.

That thought jolted him out of his inertia and he sprang to his feet.

The ground shook again.

He exited the tent and looked at his surroundings. The once tranquil night now blazed as the flames consumed the surrounding greenery. He could feel the heat emanating from the fires as he headed towards the path he was sure would be left untouched by flames. However, as he looked towards that direction, he saw THEM.

"Hey, you!" he heard one of them say.

He stared at them, confused at their presence. They were supposed to be in the other tents, inhaling the poisonous gas he released.

"Stop!" he heard.

Securing his grip on her, he ran towards the opposite direction, intent on escape.

**_"What the hand dare seize the fire . . ."_**

Protecting her with the cover of his body, he ran through the woods, feeling the back lash of the heat. The flames nipped at his feet. He could feel his sweat pouring at the side of his face.

He had to escape. He would not fail this time.

He dodged a burning branch and continued to run from the greedy blaze. He could feel his breath coming in gasps, his legs burning as flames touched his clothes. With more determination, he ran towards the sound of the waves, away from the heat.

And when he found himself in the edge of a cliff, he knew there was nowhere else to go.

He looked at his beloved one and stared again at her face. He tried to wipe the soot from her cheek as he cradled her close to his chest. He turned back to look at the individuals intent on catching him as they themselves escape the fires.

He watched the sky as it turned into an angry shade of red.

He looked again at his pursuers as they now approach him slowly.

He stepped back and heard the sound of crumbling rocks beneath his feet. He checked his balance before facing his enemies.

**_"And what shoulder, and what art  
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?"_**

He watched as they stopped in their tracks.

"Let her go," one of them said, his voice steady, reasonable.

"I'll make him let her go," muttered a younger voice as he made a move to approach him.

He stepped back again while the others restrained the young man. He looked down and saw where the cliff ended near the soles of his feet. Glancing at her unconscious form in his arms, he felt a pang in the region of his heart.

"We had so little time," he said, shaking his head regretfully. "So little time."

"Please," he heard another one of them, a woman this time, interrupting his thoughts. "Let her go."

He slid back even further. He could hear the sound of the waves as they crashed into the rocks below.

He felt the breeze and saw it gently play with her hair.

"You took her from me!" he shouted at the group. "Do you know what it felt like for me to lose her? And all because of you! You abandoned us!"

"Listen to me," shouted the man back. "What happened was a tragedy and --"

"It could have been averted had they --"

"I know," he replied evenly. "But listen to me--"

He took another step back. "You took her from me and now I'm taking her back," he said. She's my daughter!"

**_"And when thy heart began to beat  
What dread hand forged thy dread feet?"_**

"Oh, God," said the woman from the group.

He looked at her as she wobbled at her feet.

"Please," she said, her voice cracking. "Put her down."

He looked back at the young woman nestled in his arms. "No one will ever separate us," he said. "I promise."

He took another slow step back and more displaced rocks fell on the edge of the cliff. "I promise," he said.

"Rage!" he heard his name called. He looked up and saw the government man tremble. "Look at her, Rage! She is not your daughter! She is not Carla!"

"Liar!" he screamed. "Your evil shall not permeate me or my daughter!"

He took the final step back and felt the ground collapse under his feet. He held on to his daughter with all his might and watched the stars become even smaller than they already were.

"Jessie!" he vaguely heard.

He closed his eyes and met his destiny.

* * *

Revised July, 2006

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Author's note: poem incorporated into the story is by William Blake 


	2. Chapter One: A New Day Has Begun

Author's note: poem incorporated into the story is by William Blake

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**  
The One and Only Jessie Bannon – A Jonny Quest: The Real Adventures Fanfiction**

**by Akane-Rei**

**_Chapter One: A New Day Has Begun_**

**_

* * *

_**

**_"What the hammer? What the chain?  
In what furnace was thy brain?"_**

Thirteen years later . . .

"Come on, Hadj," cajoled Jonathon Quest to his long time friend. "Even your mother agrees with me on this. You need a break. Bangalore will not fall apart if you took a couple of weeks off."

"Says the self-proclaimed workaholic," Hadji said wryly.

Jon smiled in the phone as he looked at the view from his penthouse suite in New York. While being the president and owner of a large multinational company does have its perks, it also entails a number of responsibilities which he would rather do without.

"It really doesn't matter what you say, Hadj," he said. "Neela and I already arranged for the plane tickets and you, my friend, are going for a week of relaxation in the Quest Compound and a week of fun in Paris."

He heard a sigh escape the lips of his friend and he smiled with triumph.

_He's giving in,_ he thought jubilantly.

"Alright, Jon," said Hadji with a resigned tone in his voice. "I will meet you in Maine in two weeks."

"Good," he replied. "It will be just like old times."

Silence greeted his words at the other end of the line.

_Oh, damn!_ he thought. He could feel the familiar tightening in his chest. He could have sworn right then and there that he could smell the scent of the surf as it crashes against the rocks below the cliff . . .

The acrid smell of smoke worked its way around him.

Who was it that said that scent was the sense most connected to memory?

"I'm sorry," he said.

He heard a sigh in the other line. "It was not you this time, my friend," Hadji said. "It was I who took what you said and turned it into something else."

Silence.

"It is not good that friends like us have to watch what we say in front of each other for fear of triggering unpleasant memories," stated Hadji.

"Yeah, well," said Jon, "It's not like we do it on purpose."

Another silence.

"It's not like we could help it," he added quietly.

"Perhaps it is time for us to change the subject," said Hadji.

'He doesn't want to talk about it either,' thought Jon. No one does. Not even me.

Which was, in a way, terribly ironic that the one subject that seems to be taboo is the one subject that is constantly in his thoughts.

"I'll see you in two weeks," Jon said finally.

"Yes," said Hadji.

CLICK

Putting the phone back in its cradle, Jon sighed and stretched his arms. He walked towards the couch and sat down with a thud. He could tell by the jumble of his thoughts that this was going to be one of those nights.

* * *

Across the ocean, in a palace in Bangalore, the Sultan Hadji Singh approached his mother. 

"Well?" she queried.

Hadji forced a smile. "I am going to Maine in two weeks," he replied.

She clapped her hands with delight. "We have succeeded," she said. "Now maybe Dr. Quest would not worry so much."

"Yes, indeed," said Hadji. "It was a brilliant plan, mother."

His mother blushed under her dark skin. "Well," she said, "It seemed like the most prudent way to approach the dilemma. We already knew that Jon would not take a break from work for himself, however, we also know that he would do anything for a friend in need of a vacation," she finished with a sparkle in her eye, remembering their plan.

"I know," agreed Hadji. "That is something about him that will never change, despite everything."

Both were silent for awhile, each lost in their own thought.

Finally, she said, "Do you think . . . well . . . do you think he still broods over her?"

Hadji's eyes widened and his face took on an expressionless mask. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.

Neela gasped upon seeing her son's veneer and immediately regretted asking the question. At this moment, her son looked much older than his thirty years.

"I am sure he does, mother" he said evenly. "I am sure he does."

He walked over to the window and rested his hands on the ledge.

Neela followed her son's progress and reached out and touched his shoulder. "I know you—we never talked about what happened that night," she said hesitatingly, "but perhaps . . . perhaps it's time we did."

Hadji stared at the view of the mountains in front of him. They were so majestic in their bearing. They epitomized strength and resolution. So unlike people. People were vulnerable. Easily hurt.

Scenes flashed before his eyes. Scenes which emphasized this fragility of the life of humans. Scenes of a darker time. The time when . . .

"I'm sorry, mother," he started to say.

"Why do you do this?" pleaded his mother. "You always brush me off whenever the subject of her comes up --"

"Mother, please," Hadji said steadily.

"It has been over ten years!" she exclaimed. "Surely by now you can at least --"

"Never," said Hadji quietly. "Never." He pushed himself from the window ledge and walked out of the room, his footsteps echoing in the hall.

* * *

**_"What the anvil? What dread grasp  
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?"_**

In another country, a woman woke up to the sound of her own scream. She stared unseeingly at the wall before her as she sat on her bed. She raised her legs and tucked them under her arms as she rocked back and forth, back and forth, whimpering.

She could hear her own harsh breathing, coming in gasps as she tried to wipe the tears from her eyes. She tried to huddle even more when she felt the breeze blow in from the open doors of her balcony. A shiver ran down her spine as the chilled wind touched her damp skin, slick from the rivulets of sweat that soaked her sleeping gown.

She trembled, whether from the cold or her nightmare, she didn't know. Finally, sick of the coldness that seemed to envelope her, she jumped from the bed and ran to the bathroom. She turned on her shower, making sure the knob is turned towards the hot direction. She entered the stall and sat on the floor, without taking off her gown. Again, she tried to huddle towards the corner as the drops of heat scalded her skin.

She ignored the pain that the extremely hot water inflicted upon her skin, hoping against hope that the heat would warm the coldness within her being.

* * *

_**"And when the stars threw down their spears,  
And watered heaven with their tears . . ."**  
_  
The stall in the shower bursts open and she slowly looked up at the intruder. 

"Siann!" he exclaimed. He quickly lifted her from her huddled position, wincing as he felt the temperature of the water. "What in God's name are you doing to yourself!"

"I . . . I'm cold, Jean-Luc," she breathed out. "So cold."

"Same damn dream," he muttered under his breath as gathered her in his arms and carried her to her room. He gently placed her in her bed and walked towards her closet, grabbing a thick robe. Quickly and efficiently, he took of her soaked nightgown and wrapped her robe around her. He positioned himself behind her and began to gently rub her arms, trying to give her the warmth she sought.

Since he turned on the lights the second he entered her room, he could see clearly the redness of her skin. He sighed with relief when he realized that the burns were not bad enough to blister.

He held her against him and rocked her back and forth, his heart wrenching at hearing her sobs. "Shhh . . ." he said. "Everything will be fine."

It was hours before he got her to sleep again.

Making sure she wouldn't wake up if he left the bed, Jean-Luc slowly detached himself from her sleeping form and padded over to his own room. There, he lifted a phone and pushed the speed dial button for a certain individual.

**_"Did he smile his work to see?  
Did he who made the lamb make thee?"_**

"She had another episode," he said wearily and without preamble.

He heard a sigh from the other side of the line.

"He's not going to like this," said the man.

"He won't like it?" reiterated Jean-Luc incredulously, "Hell, even I don't like it. She could have really hurt herself!"

"And just what do you suggest we do about it, huh? Tell her everything! The fact that --"

"No!" exclaimed Jean-Luc. He ran his hands through his hair in frustration and sighed.

"We both know she's safer this way," said the man on the phone.

"I know," said Jean-Luc icily. "It's just . . . I don't think the programming is agreeing with her."

"She's had these episodes before and they passed on after a while, if I recall. Give it time."

He sighed again.

"Rage wants her to lead a normal life and that's exactly what we've given her. If you'll notice, she's not a target of every Tom, Dick or Harry who a grudge to pick with him."

"I know," Jean-Luc said again. "Look, I need to get some sleep. She has an exhibit tomor—wait, tonight and I have to attend it in her stead."

"Oh," said the man. "She never does go to any of her exhibits, does she?"

"No, she doesn't," he replied. "I've got to go."

CLICK

* * *

**_"Tiger! Tiger! Burning bright . . ."_**

Rage stared out of the window of his home. The rain was beating down hard that night and appropriately enough, it matched his mood for the moment. Thoughts of Carla plagued his consciousness. He had done his best to protect her from the ugliness in this world, yet her own subconscious tries to undermine him every step of the way.

"Why won't the nightmares stop?" he implored to the empty room.

Finding no answer, he hobbled towards his bedroom.

His daughter has an exhibit today, and he wanted to be there.

An hour later, Zechariah Colere emerged from the room and drove off into the night.

* * *

**_"In the forests of the night . . ."_**

Zechariah made a beeline for Jean-Luc the moment he entered the gallery.

"Where is she?" he asked.

"The usual," said Jean-Luc quietly.

He nodded and headed for the private room in the second floor. He could feel his heart beating loudly as was its wont whenever he grants himself the privilege of seeing his daughter. He knocked hesitatingly at the door, unsure of his welcome.

"Come in," said a lilting voice.

He opened the door and saw his daughter, sitting in front of the television screen, watching the crowd below through a security camera.

"Mademoiselle Jacobsen," he said.

She looked up at him and a smile of welcome formed in her face.

"Zechariah!" she exclaimed happily. "I did not know whether you would come or not."

"Would I miss the exhibit of my favorite painter?"

She laughed at this and gave him a quick hug. "I wouldn't be here without you," she said. "You were the one that gave me the courage to try this . . . to believe in my talent."

She took his hand and led him to one of the plush chairs so that he could sit with her.

"Ahhh . . . Mlle Jacobsen," he said, "Not so."

"I thought I asked that you call me Siann," she said. "There is no place for formality between two friends."

A pang of regret twisted his heart. _Remember,_ he told himself. _It was for her own protection._

"Why," she continued, "You're like a father to me."

_If only you knew,_ he thought, and said, "And you, ma chere, are the daughter I've always wanted."

They smiled at each other and sat in a comfortable silence, watching the proceedings below.

**_"What immortal hand or eye . . ."_**

"Zechariah," Siann said after a while.

He turned to her. He didn't think he'd ever get tired of looking at his daughter's face. Her presence for the past thirteen years has been a blessing for him in more ways than one. If only Abby can see her now.

"Why do you never take off your mask?" she asked suddenly, turning to look at him.

He watched her earnest face and took a deep breath. He had seen the question in her eyes for years now and had been expecting it from her. However, much to his dismay, he had no answer he could give.

"I don't know," he said.

She took his hand in hers and said, "It matters not. I understand." She smiled sweetly at him.

He squeezed her fingers and said, "And now, may I ask something of you?"

"Anything," she replied.

"Why are you not down there, basking in your success?" he questioned. "Most artists would take advantage of such exposure."

She smiled. "I guess I am not like most artists," she returned. "Just like you are not like most patrons."

Another silence.

"What an odd pair we make," she finally said. They've been sitting for hours, watching various buyers assess her works.

"Indeed we do," he said. "Indeed we do."

Zechariah took the opportunity to observe his daughter throughout the evening. He could see her familiar smile whenever something in the goings on below caught her attention. Not for the first time, he wondered whether it was the best decision not to inform her that he was her father.

_Don't you want to hear her call you her father?_

Yes, he did. More than anything. But her safety is his priority. He would never put her in danger. Never again. Not like--

He shook himself. What was he thinking? She was never in danger. Not while he's here to protect her. She's here and she's alive and she's going to stay that way.

The night was winding down to a close when he stood and bade his farewell.

"Zechariah," she said just when he was about to close the door on his way out.

He stopped and tilted his head in question.

"Just remember," she said looking directly at him, "You have a beauty that even I can never be able to capture in my painting." She stood up and walked towards him. She raised her right hand and touched his cheek through his mask.

She kissed his forehead and returned to her spot in front of the television.

He stared at her for awhile, then nodded and left.

* * *

**_"Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?"_**

Back in his room, Zechariah took his mask off and stared the grotesque features of his face. His disfigure was there for all to see in front of the mirror. He looked at the horrible scarring, the jutting bones and the discolored flesh. For the first time in a long while, he didn't wince when his fingers touched his face.

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October 09, 2004 


	3. Chapter Two: Living With the Past

**The One and Only Jessie Bannon – A Jonny Quest: The Real Adventures Fanfiction**

**by Akane-Rei**

**  
_Chapter Two: Living With the Past_**

**_

* * *

_**_  
_

Siann sipped her hot chocolate as she stared at the strolling people before her. Like most Parisians, she enjoyed the luxury of people- watching. The way people walked or carried themselves told her so much about them and yet so little. Putting together the jigsaw puzzle that was humanity fascinated her.

She tucked a strand of her red hair behind her ear when she felt a touch in her shoulder.

"Jean-Luc," she said without looking at his face. She continued to stare at the streets where the antics of a small boy caught her attention. Clearly, he was debating the merits of finishing his ice cream first or joining his playmates in their game with a ball. She watched his tiny brows turn up as he continued to lick his treat while a yearning expression entered his face.

"New project?" asked Luc, noticing her preoccupation.

"Perhaps," she replied. The boy, by now, has decided to abandon precaution and join his playmates.

"Hmmmmm," commented Luc. "Come to think of it, you've never painted a child before."

Tension sprang in the back of her neck at these words. She could feel it creeping along the back of her neck, making its way to her head.

"No," she said quietly, "I have not." A black Labrador has decided to join the rowdy group and Siann could see how the dog eyed the ice cream.

"Siann," said Luc, "Siann, look at me."

Dragging her eyes away from the scene, Siann faced Jean-Luc. "Yes?" she asked nonchalantly.

"Siann," he said. "Let us reaffirm the fact that there was -- is nothing wrong with you. The doctor said that given time, you and Pierre would have eventually conceived."

"I know," she replied. "But Pierre's gone now and I don't think I could find someone quite like him."

He sighed. "Your husband—my esteemed brother—has been dead for four years," he said. "It is time to move on."

She nodded to this and resumed her watch of the children. The little boy's ice cream had been gobbled up by the Labrador and an anxiety began to settle in his expression

"It is time to change the subject," she said as her right hand touched the wedding band she refused to take off her left hand.

For the second time, Jean-Luc sighed. "Alright," he replied reluctantly. He took a deep breath. "Your exhibition two weeks ago is still discussed, by the way. The reviews were, for the most part, very complimentary. The press, however, would still like an interview with the quote 'flame-haired goddess' who took Paris by storm with her talents.

"No interviews," she said firmly.

"You know that they continue to speculate because of that policy of yours, no?"

She nodded, but remained unchanged.

"Do you know what they say about us?"

Siann laughed. "Quite," she replied.

He scowled. "You would not find it so funny if it were your love life that is being hassled," he grumbled. "Do you know how many times I have asked a lady to dinner, only to be turned down flat because they think I am straying from you?"

She continued to laugh. "Well, Romeo," she said, "perhaps you should set them straight."

"I tried," he said indignantly. "Seriously, though," said Jean-Luc, "we must do at least one press conference. Otherwise, they would dodge your footsteps everywhere you go. Sooner or later, they would be bound to recognize your face. We've been very successful in keeping your face off the paper so far, but we both know it's only a matter of time."

Siann remained silent. She watched the children and saw the boy's mother run towards him when his face started to scrunch up. She watched as she cradled him in her arms and comforted him and wiped his tear streaked face. A familiar knot formed in her chest.

"Siann," he said. "It cannot be avoided."

"I know," said Siann. "Perhaps it's better to get that unpleasantness over with."

"I can arrange for one next week," he said.

She nodded her head reluctantly.

They sat in silence for awhile when Siann said, "I really shouldn't be complaining. There are much worse situations than what I have."

"I don't know about that," said Jean-Luc. "Forced publicity on a very private person who values personal space more than anything?"

She smiled. "Sometimes I wonder . . ." she said with a far away look on her face. "What would have been my fate had it not been for you, Pierre and Zechariah? The life of a pickpocket in the streets of Paris is not the most stable of jobs, no?"

"But you did meet us," said Luc, "and now you're you. Whatever you were is behind you now. You are Siann. No more, no less."

* * *

Hadji Singh dropped his bags and returned his friend's hug.

"It has been a long time," he said.

"You got that right," said Jonathon. "How're you doin', Hadj?"

"I am quite healthy," said Hadji as both walked towards the study to greet the older Quest.

A teasing light entered Jon's eyes. "So," he said, "Your mom still trying to marry you off?"

Hadji began to laugh. "I believe," he said, "that after that . . . incident you perpetrated, she has decided to leave that part of my life to my discretion."

Jon looked at him disbelievingly.

"That is not to say that she has not dropped subtle hints regarding her ardent desire for grandchildren," added Hadji.

Jon smirked. "Well," he said, "at least she hasn't invited any more of her 'friends' and their daughters around in an effort to matchmake."

"You have," said Hadji, "quite effectively put a stop to her ideas of arranged marriages." He frowned. "At the expense of my dignity, ofcourse,"

"Hey," protested Jon, "What are friends for? What did you expect me to do when I receive a phone call outlining the 'suffering' you were going through when your mom practically threw you to what you considered 'sharks'." He smiled wickedly.

Hadji scowled. "Your dramatic interpretation of the emotional scarring I received from the supposed multitude of women in my past would, I admit, have been very amusing were it not for the fact that while you were so eloquently presenting the dramatization to my mother, the Prime Minister of Sardus and his daughter were standing six feet behind you, listening to every word." He paused. "I believe she went home the following day, promising to keep my rather unfortunate luck with women a secret."

Hadji frowned even more, remembering both the look of pity and suppressed laughter form the prime minister's face. The Prime Minister, intelligent man that he was, quickly caught on to what Jon had been trying to attempt and had succeeded admirably in holding back his hilarity as Jon continued to play act his interpretation of a distraught Hadji as another woman callously broke his heart. Hadji winced, remembering his friend's deplorable attempt at acting.

He smiled inwardly. Time was a great healer. Years ago, he would not have been able to find any humor in the situations Jon had described, but now, he could not help but think of them and remember Jon's humorous appeal to his mother.

Jon began chuckling.

Hadji looked at him with mock consternation.

"I thought I played you quite well," said Jon. "I'd say I gave you hints of charm here and there . . . and of course, let's not forget that I gave life to your character."

"Do not, as they say, quit your day job," replied Hadji.

They opened the door to the study and found Dr. Quest writing in his journals. He looked up and beamed upon seeing Hadji with Jon.

"Hadji!" he exclaimed, giving him a bear hug. "When did you get here? We would have picked you up at the airport."

"I caught an earlier flight," he said. "It was good to drive through town and see the things that changed and remained the same."

"Well," Dr. Quest said, "you're just in time for lunch. Mrs. Evans prepared something special today, I'm sure."

"Why don't I help you carry your bags upstairs," said Jon. "Your room is still as you left it."

"Ofcourse," said Hadji.

The two of them waved good-bye to Dr. Quest before exiting the study.

Hadji took the chance to drink in his surroundings, refamiliarizing himself to the sights, the sounds, the smell of what for him was the place where he spent most of his joyful times.

Climbing the stairs, he looked at the hallway coming within his sight and was not surprised when memories of another time assaulted him.

**- - FLASHBACK - -**

"Hadji!" she pleaded to him as she tapped her foot furiously on the floor, "Can you please tell Mr. Hotshot in there that getting ready for school shouldn't have to take hours at a time?" She turned from him and started banging on the bathroom door again. "Jonny!" she screamed.

Jonny emerged from the bathroom with his trademark lopsided grin in place.

Jess looked at him incredulously. "_This _is why you spent the last hour and a half locked in there?" she shrieked. Gathering her bathing materials in her arms, she took the doorknob from his hand and slammed the door in his face.

Jonny looked at her with a perplexed expression in his face, and then shrugged his shoulders. He turned to Hadji and said, "What's her problem?"

He held back a smile. "I think it was the lack of visible results stemming from the time you spent hogging the bathroom."

"What do you mean 'lack of visible results' ?" said Jonny. "Didn't you notice anything different?"

_Uh-oh,_ he thought. "Um. . . well . . ." he stammered. _Honesty is the best policy._ "No," he said.

"Hadji!" exclaimed Jonny. "Look! I shaved today!"

At this point, Jessie stuck her head back out of the bathroom and put in her two cents worth. "Yeah right!" she said derisively. "Like you have something to shave!"

The thirteen year old looked at both of them. "C'mon you guys, didn't you notice?"

Hadji's eyes met her sparkling green ones and they both collapsed in laughter.

**- - END FLASHBACK- -**

"Hadji! Hadji! Hadji!"

He snapped out of his reverie and looked at Jon with what he was sure was a silly grin in his face.

"Where were you?" asked Jon. "I've been trying to get your attention for the past minute."

Hadji smiled. "I was remembering the good times," he replied.

Jon smiled. "The three of us had a lot of them," he said softly.

"Yes," agreed Hadji, "we did.

They walked silently to his room, each in their own thoughts.


	4. Chapter Three: Coping With the Memories

Author's note: poem incorporated in the story is by Dylan Thomas

* * *

**The One and Only Jessie Bannon – A Jonny Quest: The Real Adventures Fanfiction**

**by Akane-Rei **

**_Chapter Three: Coping With the Memories_**

**_

* * *

_**_  
_

**_"Do not go gentle into that good night . . ."_**

_Stay,_ he thought. _Don't step back._

"She's my daughter!" he screamed at them.

_Don't take another step_, he thought. _Please._

He could feel his heart beating furiously as he watched him take another step back, another step closer to the edge.

_Stop!_ his mind screamed. _He's so close to the edge. So close._

"Put her down," he whispered. "For the love of God, put her down."

"You're evil shall not permeate me or my daughter," he shouted.

_NO!_

"NO!" he finally shouted, running towards the cliff, his heart in his throat, fear lacing his voice. "No! No! No!" he screamed again and again as he watched the two figure disappear from the edge.

He ran as fast as his legs would take him until he felt his arms being jerked back. He stumbled near the edge of the cliff and felt someone try to restrain him as he tried to get up, to follow her, to get to her.

He fought his restrainer, his hands and legs flying everywhere. He felt his fists connect against a mouth, a chin, an eye. He felt his feet kick a leg, a shin, a shoulder. All the while, he screamed her name over and over.

He felt a new set of arms and legs help his restrainer as he tried to crawl towards the edge while his own arms were being held tightly by someone behind him. He tried to look at the bottom of the cliff, searching for a flash of color, an insignificant movement, anything at all as he screamed her name until his throat hurt. He found nothing. All he could see were the waves as they crashed against the jagged rocks.

"NO!" he screamed. "Please, please, please, NO!"

He felt a burning in his chest.

"Jessie!" he screamed.

**_"Old age should burn and rave at close of day . . ."_**

Jon gasped for breath as he woke from his nightmare.

"Every night," he said. "Every damn night!"

He can feel his accelerated heart beat pounding against his chest, his shallow breathing coming in and out. He sat up, running his hands through his hair, feeling his sweat almost soak it. A pounding headache began to make its way to his temple.

"Damn!" he said again under his breath. Tossing the sheets across him, he got up on his feet and headed downstairs.

Stealthily, he padded towards the kitchen and opened the fridge. Ignoring the cold air that hit his face and his bare chest, he grabbed a carton of milk and walked towards the living room. He didn't bother to turn on any of the lights, knowing that he would hate its intrusion to his solitary darkness.

He caught sight of himself in one of the mirrors and sighed wearily. Even he had to admit to himself that he looked exhausted. The bags under his eyes did not help improve the gaunt look on his face.

He shrugged his shoulders and headed for the couch. Plopping himself down on its cushions, he sat back and stared at the carton of milk in front of him, wishing it was something stronger, but knowing better. After taking a gulp, he leaned back and closed his eyes. He tried to think of something, anything besides that night, but the memories came crashing down -- as it always does after a nightmare -- and he drowned himself in them.

**_"Rage, rage against the dying of the light . . ."_**

**- - FLASHBACK - -**

"Jonny! Jonny!"  
_  
She was there, somewhere. She had to be.  
_  
"Jonny, listen to me!"

_I have to get to her._

He felt himself being dragged away from where she was and he struggled.

_Got to get to her_, he thought. _Got to be with her_.

"Jonny! Jonny!"  
_  
She's alive. She has to be._

"Jonny!"

_If only I could get to her, then everything will be fine_.

"Jonny, you cannot follow her!"

_I'll tell her I'm sorry and everything will be alright._

"You. Cannot. Follow. Her."

_NO! Everything will back to normal if I can just get to her._

"My friend," said a calm voice, "I am sorry."

He could hear someone sobbing behind him.

_I'll wake up from this nightmare when I reach her._

He renewed his efforts to reach her when he felt a blow knock him down. He fell, hitting his head against a rock in the ground, his lasts thoughts were of her when everything went black.

**END FLASHBACK**

**_"Though wise men at their end know dark is right . . ."_**

Hadji stared at the ceiling from his bed. He watched as the moonlight shadows of the leaves of the trees rustled when the breeze disturbed their rest. With his window open, he could feel the said breeze as it blew into the cold night air. He could hear the sounds of the nocturnal animals as they go about their way, their only thoughts are focused on their hunt for food in order to survive. For a moment, he envied their simple lifestyle, their single-mindedness.

He sighed and tossed in his bed. He could not sleep. Normally, meditation can put him in a somewhat relaxed state which would allow sleep to take over. However, tonight, meditation does not seem to be having its usual effect.

Not this night, at least.

Not in this house.

Not in this room.

Because he was awake, he had heard Jon walking outside the hallway.

_Another nightmare_, he thought. _More than likely the same one as before._

He had debated the merits of joining his friend. Throughout the years, he and Jon hardly ever talked about what happened to her that night. It was as if, by some unspoken agreement, they had decided to leave each other to their own thoughts. That, as it turned out, was not one of the healthiest things they could have done in regards to their mental stability.

He sighed again and sat up on his bed. He leaned against the head board and stared at his outstretched arms which were carelessly resting above his raised knees. He looked at his hands, strong hands really. Hands that were callused and rough in most places. Hands that helped with the building of more than one structure in Bangalore. Hands that were now clenched into tight fists.

He closed his eyes, trying to hold back the images those clenched fists brought with them, but the scent of the sea breeze coming from his window coupled with the remembered smell of smoke in days long past brought it all back to him.

**- - FLASHBACK - -**

_"Because their words had worked no lightning . . ."_

"Jonny! Jonny!" he shouted, hoping that by increasing the volume of his words, he can break through the haze that seemed to hold his friend in thrall.

"Jonny, listen to me!" he shouted more, shaking his friend, trying to make him aware of his surroundings, of the precariousness of his situation. He tightened his hold, ignoring the pain he felt resulting from Jonny's response to his restraining hand.

"Jonny! Jonny!" he shouted again while he restrained Jonny from his obvious intention of jumping off the cliff to follow her.

"Jonny!" he screamed. With the help of his adopted father, they both tried to get Jonny to look at them instead of the bottom of the cliff. He gasped once he saw the sheer determination in his friend's eyes as he struggled against their hold. There was something in Jonny's eyes . . . something driving him. He did not know how long he and Dr. Quest can hold him off.

Valiantly trying to hold his friend down, he searched for Race to help them with this predicament, but he had other matters in his hands, namely Estella.

He looked back at his friend's efforts to break free of him and Dr. Quest. He had to make him see reason.

"Jonny!" he began, "You cannot follow her!"

He felt his heart tug at his own words. The picture of a smiling red- head appeared in his head and he was momentarily distracted. A tightening began to form in his chest, but he quickly crushed it and focused more at the matter at hand: namely Jonny.

"You. Cannot. Follow. Her," he told his as steadfastly as he could.

He saw Jonny's eyes glaze over.

Jonny would not listen to reason. In fact, he renewed his struggles and began to lash out against them. Hadji knew that he would not be able to hold Jonny for long, especially after the beating he took from him.

"My friend," he said as emotionlessly as he could, "I am sorry."

**_" . . . they_  
_Do not go gentle into that good night . . ."_**

He punched him . . . hard. He, who abhorred violence, had hit his best friend and watched with satisfaction as Jonny hit his head into the ground. He had told himself that the blow was for Jonny's own good, that had he not punched him, Jonny would have continued headlong to his death in a vain attempt to follow her. But a small part of him, deep inside, had known that that violent act was not done entirely for altruistic purposes.

It had felt good to hit Jonny. To hit someone. To hit something. Anything. Ever since he saw her form disappear with his at the edge of that cliff, he had felt a frustration, a ten-fold increase in the anxiety he felt upon seeing her limp body carried by that masked abomination. Years of friendship had flashed before his eyes. Years of helping each other, years of adventure, years of living . . .

His frustration only increased when Jonny refused to listen to him, to hear him. The threat of losing more than he already has was foremost in his mind. So he lashed out in the most primitive way possible.

Watching his friend lying there in the ground, and realizing he was responsible for his being there, had brought a wave of shame and self- disgust to his being. That, coupled with the thought of her at the bottom of the cliff began to take hold of his mind. He stood up and looked at the scene before him. He saw the weariness in Dr. Quest's eyes, the huddled figure of Estella, the still figure of Race, and the prone body of Jonny.

_Stay calm._

The night wind blew, mingling the acrid stench of the fire with the sea air.

_They need for you to stay calm._

He watched in the horizon as the night sky turned into an angry red color as a result of the spreading flames.

_You cannot afford to give in_

The crackling sound from the forest as the fire consumed the trees and the pounding of the waves against the rocks served as the background for this horrific scene.

_Hear no evil._

He covered his ears in an attempt to shut the sound of the night from his ears.

_See no evil._

He closed his eyes in an effort to reduced the flooding of painful sensory input.

_Speak no evil._

He bit his lip to keep from screaming . . . everything.

In the midst of this, a physical pain -- different from the others, less in intensity -- began to register in his fogged brain. He took his hands, the source of the pain, from his ears and looked at them. They were clenched tightly, if somewhat slippery. He opened them and the smell of blood assaulted his nostrils. His short nails had dug deeply into his palms, breaking the skin and making the crescent moon mark of blood. He kneeled down and stared at his hands, ineffective hands. Hands that were unable to even be there to snatch her from that monster. Hands that struck his best friend. Hands which could not save his world. Hands which can do nothing even now but bleed. He looked up.

He watched his world as he knew it crumble before him.

_No_! he thought repeatedly.

It was not until much later that he realized he was screaming it.

**- - END FLASHBACK - -**

Hadji felt for the faint scar lines in his palms. He knew they were there and he did not need any light to discover where to touch for them. They were barely visible now. In fact, he was the only one who knew they were there. Every now and then, he would touch them unconsciously, as if to remind himself—not that he needed reminding—of . . . everything.

He sighed and laid back down in his bed.

Joining Jonny downstairs right now would be a very . . . bad idea. For both of them.

He turned to his side and resolved to fight his demons as he always has: alone.

* * *

Revised October 10, 2004 


	5. Chapter Four: Coping With the Memories P...

Author's note: poem incorporated in the story is by Dylan Thomas

* * *

**The One and Only Jessie Bannon – A Jonny Quest: The Real Adventures Fanfiction**

**by Akane-Rei **

**_  
Chapter Four: Coping With the Memories Part 2_**

**_

* * *

_**

**_  
"Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright  
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay . . ."_**

Dr. Benton Quest found his son lying down in the living room sofa, fast asleep. The dark circles under his eyes attested to the fact that Jon had not been getting the much needed sleep his doctor had advised him of. Benton began massaging his temple with his right hand. He wondered what time slumber finally overtook Jon's body.

Not wanting to disturb Jon, he slowly crept back out of the room and headed for the study, wishing for a time when he and his son could talk about anything under the sun.

He sat down on the armchair and stared unseeingly at the ledge by the fireplace in front of him while he reflected the past thirteen years of their lives. First of all, he found it amazing that it had been thirteen years since that incident that caused them all so much grief. Whenever he looked at his son, or his adopted son for that matter, it always seems like the memory of that night is just below the surface, as if it happened yesterday instead.

Not that he, himself, did not feel the loss of Jessie as acutely as everyone else did. Jessie was like a daughter to him. However, at that time, there didn't seem to be any time for him to express his own grieving. His family needed a rock to hold on to while they struggled to cope and he . . . he took on the role of holding everything together because, the truth of the matter is, someone needed to. At the wake of Jessie's death, everyone fell apart.

Jonny had . . . he took a deep breath, not wanting to remember the stranger that was his son during those first couple of years. And Hadji . . . Hadji had shocked him. He had thought that Hadji, more than anyone, would be able to cope better, but he had been wrong. Thinking back through it all, he really shouldn't have been surprised. Those three were closer to each other than any other set of friends he knew. What's more, Jessie had been the sole feminine influence those boys had during their years of growing up. According to the psychiatrist, in Jonny's case at least, losing Jessie had been as traumatic as losing his mother. Perhaps even more so since he was already almost sixteen at that time.

Yes, he was the one that finally pushed Jonny and Hadji to see a . . . professional. He didn't know what else to do. The Compound had resembled a mausoleum during those days. And he . . . he couldn't stand the silence. He missed the exuberant laughter that used to echo the walls. He missed the constant bickering between his son and a certain red-head. He missed seeing Hadji's attempts to mediate and stay neutral. He missed nearly getting knocked over by a hover board. Hell, he even missed the occasional explosion that inevitably resulted from their attempts to upgrade Quest World.

Of course, an explosion did occur. This explosion, however, was not the kind which he missed, nor was it the one he expected. It was an explosion between his two sons.

Perhaps that was what triggered his determination that they see a psychiatrist. The scene which he witnessed when he got home that day was something he would never like to see again. He remembered walking in the middle of their scuffle. Jonny was doing his best to pound his friend -- brother really -- while Hadji was doing an admirable job of holding his own. However, it wasn't the physical abuse which they were giving each other that sent chills down his spine. It was the looks they gave each other and the words that came out of their mouths . . . It wasn't even the fact that they were swearing quite fluently to each other. No, it was more than that. It was the bitterness which laced each sentence. It was the hidden message behind what they said.

That was one of those times when he would have really appreciated Race's presence. Before that time, he never knew how hard it was to separate two young adults from inflicting more pain to each other. He could have really used Race's help in doing that. But then, Race had his own issues to deal with.

Benton had fought tooth and nail to get both of them to agree to take up counseling. And in the end, he used guilt and the memory of Jessie to get them to reluctantly consent. It was probably the best thing which he could have done for them. Genius that he is in things which concerns phenomenology, he was an absolute idiot when it came to dealing with teenage boys and their emotional problems.

He sighed. He remembered the doctor asking if he also wanted to talk about the incident. He also remembered laughingly declining. He was fine. He was dealing with his grief on his own. In fact, compared to the rest, he was alright. He was great. He couldn't be better, given the circumstances. For some reason, that did not seem to reassure the doctor and she looked pityingly at him. He had turned away then and headed back home.

He looked up at the mantle by the fireplace and saw what he was staring at all this time. It was a picture, an old one really. It had Jonny, Jessie, and Hadji, all smiling -- no, laughing -- at the camera, their arms around each other. It was taken in Bangalore by Pasha with his old camera and given to Hadji as a present. Hadji, in turn, placed it in a frame and put it in the study room. Benton chuckled. The house used to be full of pictures of the three of them in one adventure or the other. One by one, however, they disappeared. He didn't know which one of his sons -- and he was sure it was one or both of them -- was responsible for taking them away. He never tried to find out.

He got up from his chair and walked over the fireplace. Taking the picture frame, he stared at the laughing, innocent faces of youth. He looked at Jessie, in particular. She would have been, what? Twenty-nine years old by now. Who knows what she could have accomplished. Who knows what discoveries are left undiscovered or what inventions are left uninvented because of her premature death. Jessie had always taken after him more so than Jonny when it came to intellectual pursuits.

_What a waste_, he thought.

His vision became a little bleary when he saw a drop of water drop on the glass of the frame.

Tears?

_Must have gotten something in my eye,_ he thought. _Why, I haven't shed a tear since --_

**- - FLASHBACK - -**

**_"Rage . . ."_**

_Damn it all to hell!_ he thought, running towards the cliff where he saw two figures disappear. _Oh God, Jessie!_

Once he reached near the edge, all he could do was stare at the sea. The tides were high that night and the waves crashed the shores with more emphasis than usual. Everything else became muted.

He tried to block out the one thought that persisted in imbedding itself in his head, but to no avail. This was reality. He slowly walked towards the edge of the cliff, to peer down, hoping against hope that it wasn't as high as all of them thought. Hoping that he'll somehow see Jessie hanging at the edge, holding on to some tree root that could possibly be sticking out, holding out for her dear life, waiting for him or anyone else to extend a hand out to help her. As the logic of his mind told him, his hopes were in vain.

The cliff was higher than they thought it was. What's more, jagged rocks jutted out at the bottom. Jessie, wasn't hanging on for her dear life onto some nonexistent root. In fact, if he recalled correctly, she wasn't even conscious of this whole ordeal. No. From his vantage point, all he could see was the waves crashing into those jagged rocks.

**_"Rage against the dying of the light . . ."_**

A blackness threatened to overwhelm him when he felt a touch in his leg and looked at the source. To his surprise, he saw Jonny trying to break free of Hadji's hold. One look in his eyes was enough to tell him why exactly Hadji was holding him back. Crouching down to help, he was surprised to find out how hard it was to restrain his own son. Because he was afraid of hurting him, Benton tried to be gentle, but that doesn't seem to be working.

In some level of consciousness, he could hear Hadji trying to reach Jonny in some way, trying to talk to Jonny. He supposed he could have told him to save his breath. He saw that look Jonny had in his eyes. It was very close to the look he had in his own when he lost Rachel. No amount of reasoning will be able to reach him. Not right now at least. So instead, Benton tried harder to drag Jonny off the edge.

Unfortunately for him and Hadji, Jonny seemed to be endowed with a remarkable staying power at that time.

"You. Cannot. Follow. Her," he heard Hadji say vaguely.

He froze, his mind trying to assimilate the fact that the laughing girl he was talking to awhile ago was somewhere down there. Beyond their reach. Forever.

"I am sorry," he heard Hadji say calmly.

He watched as his adopted son delivered a blow that knocked Jonny unconscious. He looked at Jonny's prone figure and relaxed his hold.

That moment, he realized how close he was to losing his son, too.

He stood up, staring at his son, at the sea, at Hadji's shocked face. He stared back at the sea, knowing it had her, knowing it wasn't about to give her back.

He stood there, wanting to shout, wanting to pound something, wanting to break something. Behind him, he could hear someone screaming over and over the word "NO!"

He wanted to do that, too. He wanted to vent his anger his frustration. But he couldn't. A stone has landed in his chest and refused to budge. The lump in his throat refused to be swallowed. All he could do was stare at the sea and watch the foam the waves made when they hit the shore. He stood there, a closed bottle of unexpressed frustration and felt his eyes begin to water.

He tasted the salt of his silent tears and knew that that was all he was capable of releasing.

_Jessie_, he thought. _I'm sorry._

**- - END FLASHBACK - -**

**

* * *

**

Revised October 10, 2004


	6. Chapter Five: Looking Back At the Choice...

**The One and Only Jessie Bannon – A Jonny Quest: The Real Adventures Fanfiction**

**by Akane-Rei **

**_  
Chapter Five: Looking Back at the Choices_**

**_

* * *

_**

Siann basked in the soft rays of sunlight that touched her skin as she stared, perplexed, at the canvas before her. Around her, the sounds and smells of the morning permeate the air. The chirping of the birds and the mysterious language of the insects can be heard below her in the gardens.

For the first time in days, she relaxed while she did what she loved most: paint. This spot, her balcony, had always been a favorite place of hers to finish her work. Good conditions for working outdoors, however, were rare and few in between. Parisian weather could be quite uncooperative most of the times. Which was why, upon seeing the bright sun when she opened her eyes that morning, Siann took the opportunity given to her and set up her materials. Ever since she decided to professionally paint, she took advantage of every inspiration that hit her.

In the corner of her eye, she noticed Luc enter her bedroom. She sighed. She had a very good guess of what he was there for.

"Are you sure this is alright with you?" Luc asked abruptly for what seemed like the hundredth time that week.

Siann dragged her eyes off her work and looked up at him with exasperation. He had been a nervous wreck since he scheduled the press conference four days ago and his constant need to reaffirm her consent has been slowly driving her up the walls.

Luc, upon seeing her glare at him, raised both hands up in a mock pose of surrender and said, "I know, I know. You would like to beat me with your paint brush. Really, Siann, these violent tendencies of yours must be curved."

She threw the said paintbrush at him, hitting him square in the chest. "You are enough to drive a saint insane!" she exclaimed. "If I did not like you so much I would have committed murder two days ago!"

"Hey!" he shouted, looking down at his white polo shirt. More specifically, he looked down at the emerging blue color that began to soak through it from the spot where he paint brush hit him. "This is one of my favorite shirts."

Siann grinned. "Really?"

He scowled at her, his dark brown eyes glinting. "Just for this, I'm going to make that press conference last two hours instead of the hour we planned," he threatened.

"Hah!" she said. "You wouldn't. You're even more apprehensive about this whole thing than I am." She looked at him strangely. "And I'm the one who has to go through with it."

She watched in surprise as he squirmed from where he stood. "Jean- Luc?" she queried softly. "What's going on?" She walked towards him and touched his arm, a look of concern placed in her face.

He took a deep breath and placed both his hands on her shoulders. She stared into the brown depths of his eyes and saw . . . something.

"Jean-Luc?" she asked again, more than a little edgy now.

"Siann," he said, "If you have any doubts . . . any doubts at all about all these, you would not hesitate to tell me, no? You know I will cancel the whole thing with one word from you."

She laughed nervously now. "Jean-Luc," she said haltingly, "you are scaring me. Now tell me what's wrong?" She searched his eyes.

As if an invisible shutter was placed between them, she watched as his eyes became suddenly unreadable.

"Nothing," he replied. He took his hands from her shoulders and started pacing the room.

Siann crossed her arms in front of her and stared at her long-time friend. "You never used to lie to me Jean-Luc," she said quietly.

* * *

_Merde_, he thought. _If only you knew._

For the umpteenth time that day, he damned Zechariah Colère. If he had not talked to the man, he would not be this apprehensive. He sighed. That wasn't quite true. The tongue-lashing he received served nothing but to reinforce a fear that had started the moment the date for the conference was confirmed.

The truth was, they were all afraid of exposing Siann's face to the world. Afraid? In Zechariah's case, that was the understatement of the year. He could not recall ever seeing that look on his face before, and for a moment, Luc had feared for his life.

He was an idiot. No doubt about that one. He couldn't believe he actually encouraged Siann to do this. More like he couldn't believe he never thought about Zechariah's reaction in all this until Zechariah found out. Sometimes, he didn't know whether Zechariah was just being paranoid. After all, it's not like Siann looked anything like him . . . not that he knew what he looked like, of course. Still, there is a matter of those kidnappers. Zechariah had warned him enough about them.

There was, of course, a slight chance that the kidnappers might see the conference and recognize their victim. However, he studied their profiles, as given to him by Zechariah. They did not seem to be the type to be overly interested in the arts. They were all more into that computer junk.

He looked at Siann. She, of course, was, for some reason, also fascinated with those infernal machines. She's one of the few people he knew in their circle of friends who did not seem the least intimidated by a computer. Taking into account the company they keep, that's not exactly surprising.

He gave himself a mental shake. He knew he walked a fine line between doing what's best for Siann's growth and doing what's best for her safety. In the years that he had looked out for her, there had always been subtle conflicts between the two goals. He shrugged. He knew in the beginning that it was not going to be easy and he never regretted his decision to join Zechariah and Pierre in protecting her.

He looked at her again. She was still looking at him with disappointment in her eyes. The same look that she gave whenever he and Pierre did something she disapproved of. That same look that had them apologizing in three seconds flat.

"Siann," he said finally. He took another deep breath and thought up another reasonable excuse. "You know what a private man Monsieur Colère is, no?"

She nodded her head, still suspicious.

_Smart girl_. he thought.

"You will make sure not to mention his name at any time at all, yes?" he said. Well, that's not exactly a lie . . .

"But, why not?" she asked, confused. "He is the one who helped me through all these . . . well, him and you and Pierre, of course. But he is my patron--"

He shook his head. "I just talked to him," he said carefully. "He is, you might say, a little apprehensive about the whole publicity thing. He does not want his name in any quote 'media circus'."

Siann, looking concerned and suspicious at the same time, said, "Why did he not ask me this himself? Surely, he knew I would not have done anything to displease him."

He nodded. "He knew that, Siann," he said, choosing his words with care, "it is me who he had to warn," he lied.

He could see he mind thinking about that and he could tell the moment she decided not to pursue the matter. He gave a quiet sigh of relief and a quick prayer of thanks to whoever it was up there who decided to spare him. For today at least.

"Oh," he suddenly said. She turned to him and tilted her head. "Before I forget. They might ask for a last name. After all, you only sign your works as 'Siann.' Would you prefer to use your maiden or your married name?"

She thought about that. "I think I will use Renard instead of Jacobsen, in honor of Pierre," she said. "It has a much nicer ring, no?" She nodded her head, as if confirming it to herself. "I will use Renard for publicity and Jacobsen for personal matters."

He sighed. "They will speculate on the fact that we have the same last names, you know."

"Let them," she said defiantly. "I will make it clear in the beginning of that conference that my personal life is not up for discussion."

There are times when even he could not believe how naive she was. This is not the time to enlighten her, however, so he dropped the topic and steered them to another direction.

"Now," he said in what he hoped did not sound like a false, bright tone, "let us discuss what you will be wearing . . ."

* * *

He looked down on the embers as they slowly die. For a moment, he had been livid when he saw the flames dancing and consuming the logs in the fireplace. Ever since that night, he had developed an aversion to the crackling sound of a fire as it burns in its merry way. In fact, he hated anything that might remind him of that night. There is something about that memory . . . something capable of driving him to madness. He tries not to think about it, ofcourse. His memories of that night were, for some reason, blurry at best. But there was something there . . . an unopened door. A door that, if opened, contains something which he was sure will push him over that edge of . . . insanity.

And he could not let that happen. Would not let that happen. So sayeth the Book of --

He shook himself. Enough of that. Ever since he retrieved his daughter he'd had no desire to quote that particular book.

He wished Abby could see her right now. Carla's success would have made her weep with pride. But then, that's neither here nor there.

Sometimes he wondered where he would be now, had he not had his daughter with him throughout all these years, had he not seen through the trickery of those damn kidnappers, had he not succeeded in getting back his daughter.

He shuddered, knowing the threat of their taking her away still exists. He could have strangled Jean-Luc with his bare hands when he heard of that . . . meeting with the press. Fortunately for Luc, Zechariah had been talking to him on the phone, instead of face to face when he learned of that stunt.

It matters not. Precautions will be taken to ensure that Carla remains as safe as possible. And if, by some chance, the . . . Quest Team happens to interfere with his life again, he will ensure that this time, in this confrontation, none of them will survive to see the next day.

* * *

Siann looked back at her sketches. She didn't know when she decided on the subject of her new project, but now, she wasn't so sure she made the right choice. The series would have consisted of various paintings of the people in her life who influenced her the most. She would have depicted them in various poses, each one emphasizing a certain characteristic more so than others. It was then when she realized that the people who influenced her the most are all men.

_Perhaps I should just call the whole thing 'The Men in My Life'_ she thought.

She laughed when she received a mental picture of Luc once he finds out she intends to put him in it also.

Then she frowned. Zechariah would not be happy. If Luc's actions awhile ago were any indication of Zechariah's publicity shyness, he would be even less pleased to know that he will be the subject of one or more of her works.

She looked at her sketch pad. Perhaps there is a way to hide Zechariah . . . She added a few strokes in the draft and looked at the result. She smiled with satisfaction. Not for the first time, she congratulated herself in venturing in her chosen profession.

* * *

Zechariah placed the phone back to its cradle. His minions are all in place. Any sign of trouble will be detected, and once it was detected, Ezekiel Rage will live once again.

Some people might think his precautions were unwarranted. After all, they had not had any incidents to indicate that Carla might be in danger. Her world remained untouched by the evil that drenches society as a whole. He, however, intended to make sure at all cost that it stays that way. He would not take any chances. Not with Carla. Not now.

_Damn press!_ he thought as he walked towards his bedroom. There, he sat on the divan and stared at the wall in front of him. One of Carla's -- Siann's -- paintings hung in that place of prominence. He stared at it, examining the work and the overall impression it gives.

Her paintings have always had an odd effect on him. They made him feel at home, and yet uncomfortable. Maybe it's the underlying menace he interprets behind each of her work. Carla, for all her naiveté, paints with a darkness which many have found . . . disturbing. The subjects of her work are not even the issue. In fact, the subjects themselves are not the ones that caused shivers to run down the spine of more than one art critic. No, it is her style which did that. No matter what Carla painted, the observant will always be able to detect a hint of . . . wrongness. The impression that not all is quite what it seems. A subtle touch of danger.

She could be painting a bowl of fruit and that hint would still be there.

Zechariah released a sigh. Sometimes he wondered whether that part of Carla's paintings were a result of her recurring nightmares.

He stared at her painting again. It was the only one of hers which he has. It was the one which scared him, Zechariah Colère, the most. At first glance it looked like an ordinary scene from beneath the surface of the water. Upon closer observation, however, he noticed that the seaweed at the edges of the painting could also be seen as hair. Human hair. Red human hair. With that thought in mind, he looked at the painting with new light. The scene was no ordinary look at what the ocean world looked like. It was a scene that was seen through the eyes of a drowned woman. A drowned woman with red hair. The subtle strokes that showed the shadow of this woman were hidden by the multitude of other details Carla has placed on canvas, but it was there.

He had shuddered once he realized what he was looking at. Pierre had been standing beside him at that time and noticed his reaction.

"Not many people can see what you just saw Zechariah," he had said.

He nodded.

He purchased the painting the next day as an anonymous buyer for two reasons. One, he had not wanted anyone else to view the painting, and two, he had not wanted Carla to know that it was he who bought it.

He stared at the painting more and shivered.

_What have I done?_ he thought.

* * *

It was said that the eyes are the windows to a person's soul. I wonder what people see when they look at my eyes. Do they see me? Do they see ME at all?

I choke.

No.

Ofcourse they don't. No one sees me anymore. No one knows I'm here.

And why should they? I can't even make my presence felt. I shout and no one hears. I cry for help and no one hears. I gasp in pain and no one cares.

Am I even real?

Sometimes even I wonder if I exist. If my memories are real. If my situation is real.

Because if they are, then I will have every reason to believe that I . . . that I'm . . . that I'm dead.

But I can't be. I'm here . . . aren't I?

Why can't anyone look at me? Look at me and see me?

God, it's been so long . . . so long since . . .

I start to sob.

Do they hear me? Do they notice me cry?

No.

Of course not.

No one does.

Not anymore.

* * *

A melancholy feeling overwhelms her. She shivers.

_When did it get so cold all of a sudden?_ she thought.

Shrugging her shoulders -- and her feelings -- aside, she picked up her pen and resumed her work. She really wanted to get something done by sunset, at least.

* * *

Revised October 10, 2004 


	7. Chapter Six: Other Nights of Past and Pr...

**The One and Only Jessie Bannon – A Jonny Quest: The Real Adventures Fanfiction**

**by Akane-Rei **

**_Chapter Six: Other Nights of Past and Present_**

**_

* * *

_**

Hadji stared at the rolling waves of the sea as they crashed against the surf and touched his bare feet. He watched his toes curl as the receding waters loosened the compacted grains of sand, allowing his feet to sink beneath the earth. He felt the night wind brush his hair, bare of its usual turban, and looked at the sky. Thousands of stars winked at him in greeting and he smiled.

There were times -- few and far in between admittedly -- in his life when the coming of the night actually brings him peace, when the lulling sound of the surf brings him relaxation, and when the salty smell of the ocean breeze brings back memories of a happier time. In those rare moments -- and they do last for only a moment -- he takes advantage of the opportunity given to him to immerse himself into the feeling and revel in the tranquillity.

"Hadji," he heard Jon call from behind him.

Sometimes, all it takes is just one added element to bring it all back . . .

Within a matter of seconds, the night became his enemy as a memory flashed within his consciousness. More often than not, the night was his nemesis. When the cloak of darkness veils the sun, it brings with it age- old feelings which claw at his being.

"Jon," he replied steadily.

He watched his friend jog over next to him and situate himself beside him.

"Geez, Hadj," he said. "What are you doing out here? It's colder than a --"

"I know," interrupted Hadji. "However, I have discovered that if you concentrate hard enough and cease to pay attention to it, it eventually goes away."

He watched his friend raise one of his brows and look at him disbelievingly. He smiled.

"May I ask what you are doing out here, my friend?" he questioned.

Jon shrugged his shoulders and said, "I followed you here."

Hadji nodded, accepting his reply.

They stood in silence for awhile, both staring at the ocean, until Jon muttered something under his breath.

"What was that?" asked Hadji as he looked at his friends.

Jon was staring at the ocean with an apathetic look in his eyes. He dug his hands in the pockets of his jeans and faced him.

"I said I used to hate the ocean," he replied with a noticeable edge in his voice.

Hadji stared at him in surprise. "I never knew that," he stated evenly, careful not to say anything that might bring the familiar awkwardness which usually accompany a discussion that may pertain to that fateful night and her. "May I ask why?" questioned Hadji, knowing full- well what the answer is.

He saw Jon take a deep breath. A tension filled silence grew between them and Hadji began to regret asking the question.

"Because she loved it," Jon broke in quietly. "She loved everything about it: the life, the scent, the feel, the sound. She got involved in so many things to preserve the life that exists in those waters . . . and this . . . this was how it repaid her dedication."

Hadji looked at him in silence and Jon gave him a rueful smile.

"I know it's stupid," he assured Hadji. "But there are times when I just couldn't help it. I needed to have something there to hate, to blame. Rage was dead so I couldn't very well hunt him down." He shrugged. "And we both know what happened the last time I took it out on someone."

Hadji nodded and unconsciously touched the side of his face. Yes, he most definitely remembered the last time Jon had lashed out on someone.

* * *

**- - FLASHBACK - -**

_Do you think you can beat me?_ Jonny thought furiously. _Do you think you can beat ME?  
_  
He felt himself pushed backward and he scrambled to get to his feet only to be pushed back. He felt himself being pounded to the ground and he gasped for breath, trying to regain his advantage. Kneeling at all fours, he stared at his hands, braced against the ground, preventing him from collapsing. Slowly, he stood up and faced his enemy.

"You think you can take me, huh?" he shouted. "Is that the best you can do?"

He never felt the storm winds blow, creating a series of goosebumps in his skin. He never felt the cold that bit at his skin, so flushed was he from exertion. He never heard the rolling of the thunder or the flashes of lightning, so intent was he upon his foe. He took his stance and prepared himself for the oncoming onslaught.

"C'mon," he muttered. "Try me. Just try me."

_I'll show you_, he thought. _I'll show you_.

When the attack came, he was ready for it. He saw it coming and he dug his feet to the ground.

All to no avail. He was overwhelmed by the sheer force, the strength . . .

Jonny felt the frigid water enclose around his body as it slammed him back into the ground. This time, his consciousness began to fade. He watched, with heavy lids, the dark waters in front of him as he gurgled the last breath he could. His eyes start to shut when he felt a set of arms pull at him by the neck.

Everything went black.

His first thought when he regained consciousness was that he was soaking wet. He could feel a wetness sluicing down his face, drenching his already wet clothes. He tried to open his eyes, only to shut them back again in response to the rain that was falling heavily from the sky. His body began to wrack with endless coughing as he tried to sit up and look at his surroundings through the pouring rain.

He was in the Quest Compound, near the house itself.

In front of him was Hadji, kneeling down, gasping for breath. He saw Hadji look down at him.

"Hey, Hadj," he rasped, although he didn't think Hadji could hear him with all the racket caused by the storm.

He saw a cloud of emotion pass over Hadji's face.

"Are you crazy?" Hadji shouted.

Taken aback, Jonny just stared at his best friend's face uncomprehendingly.

"You could have been killed out there!" Hadji continued to rail. "Swimming in the Atlantic during one of the year's worst storms is not one of the brightest things to do, Jonny!"

Hadji continued to breathe heavily and was about to say more when he interrupted.

"I know what I was doing," stated Jonny. "I could have handled it."

"Jonny," said Hadji bitingly, "You were unconscious when I pulled you out of the water. What did you think you were doing out there?"

Jonny remained silent.

Hadji, whose calm demeanor taunted at him ever since that night, wouldn't understand. He wouldn't understand this . . . restlessness . . . these feelings churning inside him . . . threatening to overwhelm him. Hadji, whose serenity throughout all this, wouldn't understand. He wouldn't understand Jonny's lack of control, his lack of discipline in dealing with them.

"Leave me alone, Hadji," he said quietly, but he was sure Hadji heard him.

He started to get up and walk towards the house when he heard Hadji say something behind him. He turned back abruptly and said in an even, but dangerous voice, "Care to repeat what you said, friend?"

Hadji looked at him directly in the eye and replied in a gratingly calm voice, "I asked why is it that you punish yourself over what had happened. I said that killing yourself will not bring her back. She is dead, Jonny."

Hadji got up to his feet while saying this and started heading towards the house.

_She is dead, Jonny._

Jonny dug his nails into his palms and watched his friend walk away from him.  
_  
Why do you punish yourself?_

His eyes burned with unshed tears.

_Killing yourself will not bring her back._

_I wasn't trying to kill myself_, he thought, still watching Hadji's retreating figure. _I wasn't._

_Killing yourself . . ._

'He's so calm,' he thought with despair. 'He doesn't even care enough to grieve.'

_. . . Will not bring her back_

_What the hell does he know_? he thought furiously. _Just what the hell does he know?_

_She is dead_

He felt a rage build inside his chest, rising up to his throat, choking him.

_You. Cannot. Follow. Her._ said a voice from that night.

He gave a cry of wrath, or anguish, and hurled himself into the unknown.

* * *

The only reason Hadji was able to block the onslaught of Jonny's first attack was the fact that he heard Jonny's battle cry just before it came. What happened afterward would be another memory that will remain engraved in his mind for years to come. He can feel the anger that was directed to him by this fifteen year old boy. He can see the frustration, the agony. All of these were reflected in his blue eyes. And because his friend was suffering and because he was still ashamed of his own actions that fateful night, all he did was block the attacks coming in his direction.

He did not throw a punch or land a kick. He took the verbal abuse spat his way with equanimity. That is, until Jonny said, "You don't care! You damn robot! You just stood there!"

Hadji's lips tightened as he tried to put a rein to his own building anger.

_Cease your words_, he thought.

"You just stood there!" shouted Jonny again in between his blows. "You didn't even try to save her! You held me back when I could have gotten to her! I would have gotten to her!"

_Shut up!_ he thought furiously.

Hadji looked at his friend's face and inwardly groaned at the sheer determination written there.

"Even . . . afterwards," gasped Jonny, "no expression. . . unfeeling robot! I wanted to follow her! Don't you understand?"

"Shut up!" Hadji howled through his blocks. "Just shut up!"

Hadji saw Jonny look at him in surprise and falter in his attack. He took advantage of that opportunity to hold him down the ground by twisting his arms behind him. He leaned down and screamed in his ear, trying to be heard above the sounds of the storm.

"You do not know how I feel!" he bellowed. "Do not presume to judge-- "

Jonny escaped his hold and pushed him away. Hadji knew that Jonny would have continued his mindless attacks had they both not heard Dr. Quest shouting over the uproar.

"What the devil is going on here!"

Both youths jumped apart and looked at each other intently. Both did not bother to answer Dr. Quest's query.

"I'm waiting for an answer," stated Dr. Quest.

Hadji stared at Jonny, who was looking at him with hate.

"I lost a friend that night, too, Jonny," he said as evenly as he could. "Am I going to lose another one tonight?"

Jonny remained silent and Hadji almost groaned in frustration. "Do you think that you are the only one to suffer her death?" Hadji demanded. "Jonny, do not be an idiot! We all suffered."

"You could have fooled me," said Jonny, almost to himself. "No one talks about her . . . No one," he whispered, but Hadji heard.

"We each deal with our grief our own way, Jonny," said the quiet voice of Benton Quest.

Hadji and Jonny looked at the doctor, as if first noticing his presence.

"Why don't we all go back inside and away from this rain?" he said, no demanded.

Hadji saw Jonny internally debate the wisdom of defying his father when he nodded his head and started to walk back to the direction of the house. He sighed with relief when he heard Jonny's footsteps follow him from behind. He never noticed the fact that Dr. Quest did not follow them back.

Before entering the house, Hadji turned to Jonny and said, "Rage was the one who took her from us, Jonny. Her death was not your fault." He turned back and headed to his room. "It was mine," he whispered to himself and himself alone. "Mine."

**- - END FLASHBACK - -**

* * *

"My fault," Jon whispered to himself as he remembered Hadji's parting shot. "It was my damn fault."

"What was that?" asked Hadji.

Jon shook the cobwebs from his brain and said, "Nothing, nothing important. By the way, I came out here to ask if you're already packed and ready to go."

Hadji smiled and Jon knew that he saw through his quite obvious way of changing the topic.

"I am quite ready for our flight tomorrow," replied Hadji.

"Well, that's good," he answered lamely.

A pensive mood pervaded the atmosphere.

"Listen," said Jon, "I'm freezing out here so I guess I'll run back to the Compound. Don't stay out too long, alright?"

Hadji nodded.

Jon ran back to the house like the devil was after him.

* * *

Hadji watched his friend's retreating figure and stared back out into the ocean.

_Sometimes_, he thought again, _all it takes is just one added element to bring it all back._

_

* * *

_

Revised October 09, 2004


	8. Chapter Seven: Strength of Mind and Will

**_  
_**

**The One and Only Jessie Bannon – A Jonny Quest: The Real Adventures Fanfiction**

**By Akane-Rei **

**_Chapter Seven: Strength of Mind and Will_**

**_

* * *

_**

Siann took a deep breath as she walked slowly towards her destination. She can feel the goose bumps rise in her arms as they sway with her stride. She can feel her heart beat pounding it merry little way. She wondered if anyone can hear it too. The shortness of her breath was duly noted by Luc when she left the car and entered the building.

She was nervous and it showed. She, who hated being in the spotlight, is deliberately walking to a room full of people whose attentions will be focused on her.

_Damn sharks_, she thought uncharitably.

Angry at herself for letting the impending event get to her at this late a date, she silently berated her body for betraying the signs of her agitated mind. This whole fiasco was partly her fault, anyway. She should have told Jean-Luc that she couldn't do it. That the whole thing was too much for her. But nooo. Pride had to come to into play. No way was she going to let a bunch of critics get the better of her. Pierre and Zechariah had taught her better than that.

She stopped abruptly when she saw the door leading to the room of torture.

She gulped.

"You can do this," she whispered to herself. "Just don't let them see your fear."

Putting on a mask of self-assurance, she forced her legs to take the final steps towards the door.

_Right, left, right, left._

She opened the door.

Wishing she were a million miles away, Siann pasted a smile on her face as she walked towards the podium. She had felt the stares that she received when she walked into the room and she knew that it had nothing to do with the fact that they recognized her and her work. No, it had more to do with her striking red hair and the fact that she walked like she owned the place. Pierre and Zechariah had taught her to hold her head high no matter what and that was exactly how she approached life and its occasional unpleasantness. Like today.

Confident at the outward appearance she projected, she grinned at her audience and waited for them to come to the realization that she was, in fact, the one and only Siann.

She met each of their gazes unwaveringly, the way Zechariah and Pierre had taught her, and spoke after the initial silence.

"I believe you have several question about me and my work," she stated calmly, belying the inner turmoil inside her. "Perhaps we should begin now."

She waited for her words to sink in. She saw the realization dawn into their eyes seconds before her vision was assaulted by the flash of lights from the various cameras.

Questions started from all directions.

The game has begun.

* * *

_Thrust. Parry. Thrust. Thrust. Parry. Thrust._

Luc watched the subtle dance of words which Siann has catalyzed with her arrival. Despite all his misgivings, Siann was handling herself quite well. Relatively speaking, ofcourse.

To those who don't know Siann, the signs were nonexistent. A slight tightening of the jaw, a delicate, but momentary crease in the forehead, the tossing of her hair . . . all these were too subtle to be noticed by those whose attention is focused on gathering info instead of observing the little hints their prey is giving away. At least he hoped they were too subtle. If he hadn't been looking for them, would he have noticed them?

Perhaps not. Siann's nervous gestures usually constitute common movements which could be interpreted different ways. In hiding her emotions from those who might hurt her, Siann had bee taught well by Pierre and Zechariah.

He frowned as one particularly eager journalist commented on the speculated relationship between him and Siann, not to mention their similar last names. He watched as Siann coolly stared the man down before stating the fact that the rumors of a marriage between them are purely fictional. She left it at that. She didn't bother to explain that he was her brother- in-law or the fact that she was a widow.

She firmly directed the discussion back to her work.

He smiled. He appearance of arrogance would grate some of these critics, he knew. Yet, it also intimidated most of them which allowed her to have control of the whole conference.

'Ingenious,' he thought. 'A strong offensive is always the best defense.'

For the first time since she refused his escort to this event, he felt the beginnings of a lighter burden in his chest. She can handle this and she will handle this.

She was right when she said that this was _her_ fight. Her problem. Hers to deal with.

* * *

It seemed as if their questions were fired at such a rapid rate. Sometimes she wondered how she can keep up with them.

'Impudent wretch,' she thought, thinking of a particular previous question asked by a small weasel of a man.

Turning her mind back to the situation at hand, she glanced at the clock at the corner of her eye and almost sighed with relief when she noticed the passage of time.

_Just a little more_, she thought.

"Mademoiselle Renard!" shouted someone at the back.

She looked at him directly and took note of his abrasiveness.

_Americain_, she thought, amused. Not bothering to mention that Renard was her married name, not maiden name, she answered, "Oui, monsieur?"

_You'll get through this_, she thought as she listened to his question and answered more. _You'll see. You'll get through with this._

She began anticipating the treat she would give herself for the suffocation and invasion she was experiencing at this moment.

"Mademoiselle!" said the American again. "Many critics have commented that art such as yours must stem from some sort of tragedy. What say you to these observations?"

She hated personal questions. She expected them, ofcourse, but she still hated them. She was also beginning to hate the little peacock of an American who is so insistent with his quest for something . . . what was that word? . . . something 'juicy' to report about her in his uncultured country.

Mentally castigating herself to the depths of hell for letting the little man reduce her to insulting a whole country, she looked at him with what Luc called her 'piercing stare' and replied, "It's a gift."

Seeing the confused expression enter the man's eyes, she waited for his next question.

"The tragedy?" he asked. "Your art? What's a gift?"

"Both," she said quietly as she brought the whole thing to a close by thanking everyone for their attendance.

* * *

_I opened my eyes, feeling the ground I laid upon. I can smell the cement and the dirt that rubbed against my cheek. That's one thing about living in darkness was the fact that your other senses become more acute, as if to make up for the lost of your sight. Spitting the dirt from my mouth, I looked up at the only opening in this damp prison._

_There seemed to be an unusual amount of activity going on outside . . ._

_The outside . . ._

_Something I've dreamed of becoming a part of again. It's been so long since I've interacted with someone from the outside . . . so long._

_I stand up and slowly stagger towards that opening. I saw the sea of faces before me, staring at me, staring through me._

_"Let me go!" I shouted. Trying to rattle the bars to make enough noise so that they would look at me, I shouted again, "Let me go!"_

_They ignored me, just as the people outside have always had. They were no different._

_Slumping against the door, I stared unseeingly in front of me. I stared at the blackness that reflected my anguish, my hate. For I had begun to hate._

_The years of being trapped and unable to even wage a successful escape were taking its toll. I had begun to hate my ineffectuality, my inability to fight what they did to me. Sometimes, in my darkest days -- or is it nights? I can never tell the difference anymore -- I find myself calling out his name, their name, for help._

_That's one of the things I hate the most about my situation. The fact that I am reduced to this occasional damsel-in-distress mode grates me the most. I don't know what's worse: the fact that I am a damsel in distress or the fact that no knight has come charging to my rescue._

_Dammit!_

_I just knew that this was going to be one of those self-pitying days . . ._

_My fingers dug into the ground from where I was sitting._

_The perpetrators will pay._

_Someday._

_I promise._

_I suddenly laugh hysterically. How can I even __think about getting my revenge when the truth of the matter is, I can't get out of this mess? There were days when I've resigned myself to being here forever._

_I wonder. Maybe I can have my revenge from the grave. It's only a matter of time before I die, right? But then, there is that philosophical interpretation that I might already be dead._

_Wouldn't that be funny? Wouldn't that be just soo FUNNY! Wouldn't that be just the ultimate triumph of my enemies? For me to be dead and not know it? For me to be dead and still feel all this frustration, all this pain . . ._

_I thought death was a release from all that._

_That's what's keeping me going. That's probably why, deep inside, I welcome every feeling I experience, whether good or bad. It tells me that I'm alive._

_And while I'm alive, there's still a chance . . ._

_I'll fight this._

_I'll fight this, dammit._

_I won't let them win. I want this victory so much, I can taste it. I want it even more than some stupid victory against a certain egotistical . . ._

_I sigh. No use dwelling on the past now. I've got to find another way to make my presence felt . . . to make them look at me and see me . . ._

_I know who I am and won't ever forget._

_I start pounding on my prison walls again._

* * *

Siann walked out of the conference room the same way she walked in: with the appearance of a self-assuredness she most certainly does not feel. A pounding headache began to make itself felt at her temples. Putting it down to stress, she escaped further questions by ducking in the ladies room and hiding from the crowd for a few minutes.

Glad that she was alone in her hiding place, she looked at her face in the mirror. The familiar green eyes stared back at her, the tiredness clear in their depths. With her mask out of place, she can see the lines of exhaustion dominate her face and she cringed.

Luc would not be happy. He's always telling her to take care of herself more and to watch that she doesn't overdo things.

Sighing, she shrugged her shoulders. It had been quite a long day and it had left its marks on her.

Looking at herself again in the mirror, she wasn't prepared for the blinding pain that suddenly developed from the controllable twinge she felt in her head earlier. She let out a small whimper as her hands held tightly on the counter top.

'Not now,' she thought. 'Dammit, not now!'

She took deep even breaths, looking at her clenched fingers as her nails strained against the surface of the sink.

'Control,' she thought. 'I must have control.'

Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate on something pleasant, something to take her mind off where she is and what she's feeling.

She didn't know how long she spent trying to fight the assault of pain, but eventually, she felt nothing. Opening her eyes, she looked around her.

Taking another deep breath, she stood up straight, and headed home.

* * *

_The Quests' jet landed smoothly at the Charles de Gaulle airport. Its occupants were a little tired from their flight, but all in all in good humor. They seemed determined to enjoy their stay in Paris and are looking forward to see the sights. They gave no indication of coming to Paris for the purpose of searching for a particular someone_.

Zechariah crumpled the note in his hand and threw it in the fireplace.

_A coincidence_, he thought angrily. _A damn coincidence!_

Cursing the fates that brought them here, he stalked towards his bedroom and stared at the painting in his wall.

"It had better be a coincidence," he whispered furiously.

* * *

Revised October 09, 2004 


	9. Chapter Eight: The Haunting

**The One and Only Jessie Bannon – A Jonny Quest: The Real Adventures Fanfiction**

**by Akane-Rei **

**_Chapter Eight: The Haunting_**

**_

* * *

_**

**- - FLASHBACK - -**

"And what makes you believe that your friend didn't die from her fall?" she asked, looking at him thought the rim of her thick glasses.

"I never said I thought she wasn't dead," Jonny said as he stood up from the comfortable chair he was sitting on and began to pace back and forth in front of her. His agitated movements drew a line of worry in her face, but he ignored it. Right now, his number one priority is to make sure that she doesn't think he's a nutcase despite the almost overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

He sat back down on his chair and stared at her.

"It's just that I . . . I . . . I see her," he claimed almost defiantly, daring her to gainsay him.

He watched his doctor's eyes widen. The amazing thing about the eyes is that most people can't control the emotion behind them. Jonny was sure that had his psychiatrist been less in control of her facial expressions, one of her brows would have been raised in response to his statement.

Instead, she greeted his words with and unemotional, "Oh?"

"I see her everywhere," he continued.

"She . . . haunts you?"

**- - END FLASHBACK - -**

_She haunts you?_

Jon shook his head in disgust as he leaned against a railing and looked down at the Seine river. A cool breeze played with the tendrils of his blond hair as he stared at the river's dark waters, flowing gently in its course.

"You idiot," he muttered to his distorted reflection.

He came to Paris to relax and maybe, just maybe, leave his . . . concerns behind for a moment. Just a moment. Was that too much to ask?

"Apparently," he answered to himself. He took a deep breath and expelled it with a sigh of frustration.

It had started again. He didn't know what triggered it or whether it was just him and the fact that he's in Paris, but for whatever reason, he started seeing her again. Everywhere. It's almost as bad as when she first . . . died.

"That's right, Quest," he muttered to himself. "She died. Try to remember that." He buried his head in his hands and whispered, "Then maybe you won't keep seeing her everywhere you go."

Still he stared at the river. A heavy feeling settled in his chest, as it always did whenever he reminded himself that they did in fact lose her that night.

"Jon," he heard someone call behind him.

He closed his eyes. 'Hadji,' he thought. 'Good old Hadji.'

"Yeah," he answered stiltedly.

He heard Hadji approach from behind him and felt his friend's hand touch his shoulder. He waited for Hadji to say something, anything while he mentally prepared arguments in defense to his untimely departure from the café they were eating from. To his surprise, Hadji just stood there and joined him in his contemplation by the river.

Jon glanced at Hadji from the corner of his eye as they both watched stood quietly deep in thought. He struggled to look for the words to explain his actions to his friend, words that won't make him seem like the a lunatic, words that would assure his friend that he is in a stable mental condition.

"Are you alright, Jon?" Hadji finally said.

Jon looked at him closely, debating whether to tell him of his . . . bouts of hallucinations . . .

"Yes," he replied. "Considering."

**- -FLASHBACK - -**

"Considering everything that has happened," she said, "I can understand why you would like to cling to the hope that she might still be alive."

"I know she's dead," Jonny reiterated to his psychiatrist, running his fingers through his hair.

This time, the good doctor did raise her brows. "Really?" she asked skeptically.

"Yes!" he said with fervor. "I went to her funeral, damm -- darn it!"

He saw her take a deep breath and look at him inquiringly. "Tell me, Jonny," she began with a deceptively nonchalant tone, "if you believe Jessie to be dead, then who is it that you chased to the streets?" She stared at him innocently. "You did tell me that you almost ran down that red-haired girl yesterday, didn't you?"

Silence.

"Jonny," she prodded gently.

"I thought I saw her," he whispered, recalling the embarrassing incident at the restaurant. He had seen something at the corner of his eye, just a flash of red hair, really, but it had him jumping through some tables in an effort to reach its owner.

"I'll ask you again, Jonny," she said firmly, "do you believe that Jessie survived that fall off the cliff?"

**- - END FLASHBACK - -**

_Do you believe that Jessie survived that fall off the cliff?  
_  
"Yes," Jon whispered to himself. "I did." He gave a self- deprecating laugh. What an idealistic fool he was back then.

"What was that?" asked Hadji.

Jon shook his head. "Just thinking to myself, Hadj," he replied, standing from his leaning position at the railing.

Hadji nodded. "Then would you mind explaining to me what happened back there, my friend?" he probed.

"Nothing," answered Jon, still looking out at the Seine. He almost smiled when he heard Hadji sigh with exasperation.

"Jon," Hadji said with a slight edge in his voice, "you ran from the café, almost overturning several of the tables. Now would you so kindly mind as to tell me what it was you were pursuing?"

Jon gave an uneasy laugh. "Always so formal," he commented as his brain wracked up ways to avoid looking like a delusional idiot.

Hadji stared at him intently and waited.

Jon sighed. "Really, it was nothing," he reiterated. "I thought I saw something and I had to go check it out."

After another drawn out silence, Hadji ventured to ask, "Did you see her again?"

**- - FLASHBACK - -**  
_  
_"Did you see her again today?" she asked casually, looking carefully at him, examining him as she has always done.

There were times when he wished she didn't have so much control of her expression. Just for once, he'd like her to lose her temper or display any emotion besides her usual. He felt like a bug under a microscope whenever they talked and he was beginning to resent her intrusion.

"Ofcourse I didn't see her," he said blithely. "As you've said before, it is impossible for me to see a dead person."

He watched her face for a sign of any exasperation . . . anything.

"You're quibbling," she stated. "Come on, Jonny. You know what I meant."

His shoulders drooped. He can't remember when he started trying to get a reaction from her, or when he started to want to see something other than the serene expression in her face. However, for one reason or the other, he wanted to break through her control.

Actually, he wanted to break everyone's control, but he didn't think he'd have another shot at Hadji any time soon. So . . . he'll just have to settle with Dr.--

"Jonny," she said again, interrupting his thoughts.

His eyes went to the ground, studying the texture, color, pattern.

'Yes,' he thought. 'I saw her again. In school this time. And yes, I chased her again.'

"No," he answered. "I didn't see her."

Technically, that statement was true. He didn't see Jessie. When he caught up with the girl he pursued, she turned to give him a glare and it was definitely not Jessie. So, he didn't see her, right?

He heard his psychiatrist take a deep breath.

"I think this session is over," she said quietly. "There's nothing to be accomplished today. We'll talk again in our next meeting."

With a sigh of relief, he quickly stood up and headed towards the door. He couldn't look at her face. For some reason, he had a feeling that she didn't buy anything he said today. He walked out of the building, one question ringing in his ears.

_Did you see her again?  
_  
**- - END FLASHBACK - -**

* * *

_Did you see her again?_

Hadji could have kicked himself for asking that question. And he believed he would have, too, were it anatomically possible to do such a thing. As it is, there were times when his diplomatic skills desert him and is replaced by this irrepressible urge to blurt out the first thing that comes to his mind. His mother tells him that that is a luxury which only the old and cantankerous have, but there are moments when he wondered if sultans can also be excused. Moments such as now.

He wanted to press Jon to verbally confirm that he chased a dead woman down the streets of Paris. Perhaps it was to make him feel better about the whole situation. Because, the truth of the matter is, for a split second, he also thought he had seen Jessie. There had been a force, so compelling that he had looked up abruptly from his meal, in time to see Jon jump from the table and chase Je--

However, rationality had come to his rescue once more and he knew that the red-haired woman could not have been her. No other red-haired woman could ever be her. So, unlike Jon, he had slowly left the café and trotted after his friend.

"I really am a bad liar when it comes to lying to you, huh?" he heard Jon state ruefully.

He looked at his friend again. "Perhaps we just know each other a little to well," he replied stoically. "Years of friendship do that to you."

-** - FLASHBACK - -**

"Years of friendship," she stated, looking directly into his eyes. "That's what you and Jonny have. Do you really believe that he would give all that up because of an altercation?"

"The three of us had years of friendship, doctor," he replied slowly. "Perhaps the loss of one of us is enough to break whatever bonds that held the three of us."

"Do you believe that?" she asked him, her eyes narrowing.

He thought about it. He really did. In the beginning, his answer would have been an unequivocal no. Yet, during the past few weeks, his certainty had been tested to its limits. Sometimes he would see Jonny looking at both him and Dr. Quest, asking for something he knew not what, demanding something he knew he would not be able to deliver: a confirmation of grief.

Emotion.

He had learned to control that aspect of his life from a very young age. They simmer just below the surface of his exterior, threatening to take over as they did that night. Well, he was not about to let that happen again.

_What about that incident at the beach?  
_  
He bowed his head in shame. Perhaps that incident had been an aberration. It matters not. He saw it as an indication of his lack of control over something so basic, he had thought he had mastered it already.

Her death taught him differently and Jonny's accusations made a mockery of his presumptions.

Finally, he lifted his eyes and replied, "I do not know," to the question she voiced.

He saw her eyes soften at his uncertain answer. "She must have been a very special young lady," she said softly.

He closed his eyes. "The three of us would have done anything for each other," he said in a far away voice. "Including lay down our lives . . . but she did not even give us a chance."

"She was a very big part of your lives," she said, stating the glaringly obvious fact.

**- - END FLASHBACK - -**

* * *

"She was a very big part of our lives, Hadji," he finally said, knowing that Hadji had probably guessed by now the reason for his abrupt departure.

"Yes, she was," Hadji agreed readily.

Again, they both lapsed into silence, each with his own thoughts as they leaned against the railing and stared at the reflection of the newly risen moon on the river.

How long they were both there, he didn't know, but when a chill began to penetrate his consciousness, Jon knew it was time to get back to the hotel. Heaving himself from the railing, he stretched his unused muscles and said in a whimsical tone, "Her hair really was like the shade of Jessie's hair."

"Yes, it was," Hadji whispered in reply.

Expecting Hadji to raise his brows in disbelief, Jon was more than surprised by his friend's quiet affirmation.

"Too bad I didn't catch her," Jon said deliberately, testing the waters.

He saw Hadji frown. "If I recall correctly," he began, "the last time you caught your target, she was more than a little upset with you. I would count myself lucky this time, if I were you of course."

Jon laughed. "Perhaps I am at that," he replied, his mood lightened for some inexplicable reason. It didn't last for long, however. The initial problem that brought him by the Seine pervaded his thoughts again and a sober thought entered his head.

"I keep seeing her again, Hadji," he said as they walked towards their hotel. "Ever since we got here."

"You do not really think that --"

"I know she's dead, Hadji," he said, repeating a familiar claim from the past. "But dammit! Before I can think, I try to grab hold on to what I think of as her. Maybe those damn therapy sessions should have lasted longer than it did."

* * *

"Maybe they should have," Hadji muttered in agreement as he walked beside his friend. Both of them could certainly use a little more counseling if they keep seeing a dead woman in their midst. This was Paris. An ocean away from everything that has happened. And yet, her presence stays with them, stronger than ever.

He sighed. To be truthful, he did not think she ever left. Her memory is always at the surface of both their minds . . .

The passage of time failed to work its magic on any of them. Putting his hands in his pockets, he continued his pace, glancing at Jon furtively at his side. Unlike Jon, he is a little better at controlling his impulses. Giving another sigh, he and Jon walked towards their destination, their footsteps echoing in their wake.

* * *

"We think they might have seen her, sir," reported one of his lackeys with obvious reluctance. "One of them tried to catch up with her, but he lost her in the crowd."

'Damn, damn, DAMN!' he thought. Clenching his hands into tight fists, he pounded them against the window sill and asked in a low, but dangerous voice, "So they chased her down, did they?"

"W-well," the lackey mumbled in reply, "if not, then one of them succeeded in giving a good imitation of a pursuit."

"And did she see any of this?" he forcefully drew out.

"We believe she was oblivious of the whole thing, sir."

'But they saw her,' he thought. 'Dammit! They must have seen her to follow her like that.'

"S-sir?" the imbecile said, interrupting his thoughts.

"What?" he said angrily, looking at the man impatiently.

"What should the plan of action be, sir?" he asked hesitatingly.

_Plan?_ he thought. _There's only one thing to do._

"You will be informed when I see fit," he replied dismissively. "Now leave me."

He watched the man scurry out of his sight in his hurry to avoid his wrath.

'There's only one thing to do,' he thought.

Again, he cursed the fates that seemed to work against his every wish. Of all the multitude of cafés in Paris, the Quests just happen to be at the same one Carla happened to pass by at that moment. They just happen to choose the place she frequented.

He looked at his reflection in the window as he took off his mask. He can see his scarred face within the backdrop of the stars and the moon of the night.

The time has come to resurrect Ezekiel Rage from Zechariah Colère.

* * *

Revised October 09, 2004 


	10. Chapter Nine: Last Days of Innocence

**The One and Only Jessie Bannon – A Jonny Quest: The Real Adventures Fanfiction**

**by Akane-Rei **

**_Chapter Nine: Last Days of Innocence_**

* * *

"I don't understand," said Siann, confusion evident in her tone. "It is a beautiful day out there, Luc. I'm not about to waste it by staying indoors!" By this time, her voice had risen to a shout as she stomped out of the room.

She made a face at him when she arrived at the safety of her room, then promptly chastised herself for behaving childishly. She didn't know what was wrong with Luc that day -- that week, for that matter -- but she wished he would quickly get over it. It wasn't often that Luc got into one of those moods, but when he does, he usually took it out on someone else -- not her. Now, however, whatever was bothering him was having an unpleasant effect on her and she won't stand for it.

She looked out of the window and saw the sun calling to her. She looked around her room for the baseball cap which she knew Luc deplored for its lack of aestheticism. Finding it, she grinned and tucked her hair underneath it, just to irritate him for irritating her. Gathering her sketch notebook and a few charcoal pencils with her, she took a deep breath and exited her room.

"Siann!"

She headed straight for the door which would lead her outside, not even bothering to give him a second glance. He was in a rare fit and she did not relish being told not to go out of the house like an unruly schoolgirl.

Once out, she basked in the morning sun and looked back at the house.

What was wrong with everyone lately? They all seemed so jumpy . . . even Zechariah. While it's true that strangers have been approaching her from nowhere and asking about her appearance in the telé, she saw no danger in them. They are as irritating as those brash americains, yes, but not dangerous. She sighed, remembering how upset Luc had become when, out of the blue, a stranger had asked her out to dinner. It was another one of those pesky people who have decided that her appearance in the telé meant that they could own her and invade her privacy. Shaking her head, she tried to put the incident behind her and focus on her new project. That train of thought was not the wisest choice, of course, since it put the objects of her vexation right in the forefront of her mind. She was beginning to regret making the men of her life the subject of her new series.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm herself. Perhaps a change of subject might improve her disposition. Just for fun, of course. With this in mind, she headed towards her favorite café for a dose of people- watching.

* * *

Hadji grinned.

If his advisors could see him now . . .

Gone was the formal attire that distinguished the Sultan of Bangalore from his subjects. In its stead are the comfortable fit of a well-worn jeans. Feeling the wind ruffle his thick, black hair as he strolled down the streets of Paris, he gave a small smile and headed for the café to meet Jon. Jon had insisted on going to the establishment first and apologizing to the owner for his behavior the day before and Hadji had reluctantly agreed to let Jon out of his sight for the moment.

He was sure that, by this time, Jon had noticed his tendency to follow him around, especially since the incident yesterday. He shrugged. It is important for his peace of mind that he do this, ergo, he does.

As he approached the café, he smiled when he saw his friend seated at one of the outside tables and joined him.

"So, my friend," he said in a bemused voice, "how did your abject apology go?"

Jon gave a small laugh. "It went alright," he answered, drinking his coffee.

Hadji took the seat beside him and ordered for himself a cup of tea while the two of them enjoyed watching the bustle of a Parisian morning. He was about to ask Jon to explicate his answer to his question when he felt something collide with his feet. Looking down, he saw a red ball rolling innocently back and forth between his feet and Jon's.

He saw Jon lean down and pick the ball up as he looked around for its owner. They watched, both bemused, as a child -- no more than four or five, really -- approached them apprehensively.

"M-m-messieurs," the child whispered. "M-m-m--"

"Is this your ball?" Jon asked in an easygoing voice, as he held the ball out to the child.

The boy nodded enthusiastically and held his arms out to receive his treasure.

Jon laughed as he gave the toy to its rightful owner while ruffling the boy's hair with his other hand. It is unfortunate, really, that Jon did not have any children of his own. He was a natural with them and he had heard Estella mention often enough how good Jon was with her and Race's five-year old daughter, Linna.

Linna . . . a miniature version of --

"And did you say 'thank you' to the nice man, Michèl?" a woman's voice said, interrupting his thoughts. The question was asked in French so it took a while for him to process what was actually being said, but the voice had grabbed his attention.

There was something about that voice . . . it tugged at his memory.

He looked up, searching for the owner and found the boy -- Michèl, he presumes -- talking to a person whose back was towards them. He could not really see much of her -- his assumption that she is a she was from hearing her voice -- but judging from her stature and mode of dress, she looked like a teenager. Her loose shirt and scruffy looking jeans along with her baseball cap added to that impression.

He watched as Michèl approached their table again with a small smile on his face, but his attention was still at that voice.

There was a certain quality . . .

"M-m-m-merc-c-ci," the little boy whispered to both of them. Before either could answer, the boy ran back to his friends.

Hadji looked up again and saw the teenage girl find a seat in the pavement and take out a sketchpad and a pencil as she watched the children play their games.

Perhaps it was the tone of her voice . . .

He shook his head, berating himself for letting his imagination lead him astray.

_Turn,_ he thought. _Let me see you_.

Her face would give him another identity to go with the voice.

Perhaps it was the timber . . .

_I need to see your face_, he thought. _To know that you are not her._

He heard her laugh at one of the antics of the children.

_Turn_, his mind screamed.

He glanced at Jon and saw his own friend staring at the back of the girl. Slowly, Jon's eyes turned to meet his. They looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity when he heard her laugh again and his mind was sucked into a whirl of memories.

**- - FLASHBACK - -**

She was smiling at him, at his befuddlement. He could see the mirth behind her eyes as she watched his reaction.

"Don't you get it, Hadji?" she asked, and even in the tone of her voice, he could _hear_ her smile. "She likes you," she said in a sing-song voice.

He shuddered and looked back at the twitching animal in front of him and quickly looked away.

_Wait a minute_, he thought. _Twitching?_ He looked back down again.

"It is alive," he whispered with horror.

Jessie looked back down. "Well, what do you know?" she asked to no one in particular. "We have ourselves a fighter, here."

She knelt down and gently picked up the little bird. It gave a pathetic chirping sound as it struggled against Jessie's gentle hands.

"Shhhh," she whispered to the bird, making crooning sounds as she brought it inside the house.

He followed her, still in a daze, trying to cope with the fact that a certain female gave him what was supposed to be a dead bird as a symbol of her affection.

"Ummm..." he began. "Will it . . . uh . . . she . . . he? live, do you think?"

Jessie glanced back at him and was about to answer when Jonny came bouncing from the stairs.

"What's that you have there, Ace?" he asked.

With a mischievous grin in her face, she answered as solemnly as she could, "One of Hadji's admirer's left a dead bird for him today -- only it wasn't quite dead yet."

Confusion was evident in Jonny's face as he turned to look at him. "Geez, Hadj," he said in an exasperated tone, "another psycho girlfriend?"

Trying to gather the remnants of his dignity, Hadji said in reply, "She was a cat, Jonny."

"Namecalling, now, are we?" said Jonny in response.

_One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . Counting was supposed to alleviate strong emotions . . . Five . . . He . . . Six . . . did not think . . . Seven . . . it was . . . Eight . . . working right now._

"I meant that it was a cat who left the bird, Jonny," he said tightly.

"Huh?" asked Jonny.

Nine . . .

She started laughing.

Both he and Jonny turned to her as they watched her struggle with her hilarity.

"Your sense of humor is out of place at this time, Jessie," he said.

She started laughing harder and she struggled to gently place the bird on a table. Once freed, her hands immediately went to clutch her sides as she tried to get a word in edgewise.

"I'm s-s-sorry," she said between gasps. "It's j-j-just the look on your face," she wheezed. "And Jonny's s-so . . . so thick --"

He can see the moment she gave up struggling and just let the laughter take hold of her. He looked at Jonny and in their eyes was a tacit agreement: there were times when men must stick together for the saving of their prides against the blatant battering that women and their kind inflict.

Jonny began cracking his knuckles as both of them approached her.

Jessie, it seems, still has all her self-preservation instincts with her despite her condition. He saw her eyes widen as she scrambled to her feet and got behind the table where the bird lay.

"No time for that now," she said quickly, her fit of laughter apparently abated for the time being. "We gotta do something about this bird."

**- - END FLASHBACK - -**

And that was the last time he saw her laugh.

* * *

He stared down at the mass of people below him, going about their daily lives like the drones of a beehive. They exist in ignorance of all the dangers that could be facing them or their loved ones. They exist in ignorance of the fragility of life.

And that's how they prefer it. That's how they are able to walk outside of their so-called safe and secure homes and venture the outside world.

They exist in ignorance of people like him.

If one would disregard all the intricacies of exactly how a job is accomplished efficiently and anonymously, then one might say that a sniper's life is quite simple.

_Yes,_ he thought to himself as he peered down at his targets. _Quite simple._

A sniper is given a target and the target is then eradicated. Compensation comes once the target is recorded in his kill book.

"I have them within my sights, Monsieur," he whispered softly, knowing that technology will do its job and allow his client to hear him. "I need only your command."

This particular client had been picky. He had insisted on giving the order before he can fire.

Normally, he would have refused such a job. After all, he was good at what he does and could do very well without the aggravation he knew it would bring him. But the price for these kills were . . . beyond belief.

"Sir?" he said again. "I can take care of them now."

* * *

Luc had debated long and hard with himself about his actions. In the end, however, his fear for Siann's safety had overruled any moral dilemmas he might suffer as a consequence of what he is about to execute. So he had hired a sniper to take care of Zechariah's problems. Surely that's not so bad. Presidents do it all the time. Yes. That's it.

He took a deep breath. Siann had been particularly stubborn today. He would have preferred that she stayed indoors today of all days, but she had left in a huff. He sighed with frustration. How can he keep her safe if she insists on going on these jaunts? Now he has to go looking for her after all this is done.

"Sir?" he heard the sniper's voice again, this time with an edge of impatience.

He closed his eyes.

_You are not a murderer_, he thought to himself. _You are a protector. Her protector._

"Monsieur!" he heard again from his sniper.

"Do it," he whispered. "Eliminate your targets now."

* * *

Revised October 10, 2004 


	11. Chapter Ten: A Ghost from the Past

**The One and Only Jessie Bannon – A Jonny Quest: The Real Adventures Fanfiction**

**by Akane-Rei **

**_  
Chapter Ten: A Ghost From the Past_**

**_

* * *

_**

He pulled the trigger.

And the moment he did it, as Shakespeare so eloquently put it, all hell broke loose.

Perhaps he had been too focused on his target that he missed the effect of the environment around him. Perhaps he had been too impatient for his client to answer his query that he made a lapse of judgment. A lapse of judgment that's going to cost him a hefty amount of francs, that's for damn sure. He watched as the two targets have ducked for cover, at the same time trying to shield some little kid from further attacks.

_Stupid kid!  
_  
Just when he pulled the trigger, the kid's ball had bounced over to the target and the target had leaned down . . .

"God dammit!" he said as he took another aim. The moment, however, had been lost. The prey is aware of the hunter and he couldn't get a good enough aim to finish the job he started.

"Merde!" spat under his breath.

Trying to contain his frustration he swiftly began packing his equipment, knowing it won't be long before a crowd would gather to investigate a gunshot wound.

"What's going on?" he heard on his receiver.

Ignoring his client, he continued to on his way to disappear into the streets. He would talk to his client later, after he has cooled down a bit.

* * *

"Siann!"

Siann had galvanized into action the moment she heard Michèl yell out her name. She turned to her back, in time to see one of the two men -- the blond one -- assaulting Michèl and doing his best to rub his face to the ground. With a cry of rage, she launched herself at his attacker, intent on doing bodily harm.

"Let him go!" she shrieked, incensed, as she landed on top of her victim. She then started hitting the tow-headed idiot—americain by the sound of him—with anything she can get her hands on. Cups, glasses, eating utensils, and her fists went flying as she tried to make her fury known. Tables were overturned and customers backed off as they watched the tableau before them.

Suddenly, she felt herself being restrained from behind, being dragged away from her victim and pushed down the ground herself. Swearing vehemently, she struggled furiously against her assailant when she heard him shout in her ear.

"Stop it!" he screamed. "My friend is only trying to protect him! There is a sniper out there—"

"And you really expect me to believe that piece of —"

"Look at him!" he persisted, his voice insistent and loud against her left ear, as he twisted her arms behind her, turning her body to face the blond and Michèl. "Can you not see the bleeding in his shoulder?" He tightened his grip. "Look closely, mademoiselle! Someone took a shot at us and —"

His voice faded in the background as Siann finally looked and saw. She saw as the blond man tried to shield Michèl with his own body and at the same time, search his surroundings for the source of the threat. She saw as he winced when Michèl's struggling arms pushed against his left shoulder where a red stain began to soak through his white shirt.

"Mon Dieu," she gasped, as she tried to crawl towards them, only to remember that her arms were held by the strange man behind her. She renewed her struggle only to find herself facing the ground again, with the man's heavy weight keeping her there. "Let me go," she gasped at her captor. "I have to help him . . . he's bleeding--"

"Quite right," said the man who's accent she can't quite place. "However, it is perhaps wise that you stay down, too. For now at least. Unless, of course, you would like to be the next available target?"

"That's not funny," she snapped, trying to glare at him from her position and failing utterly.

"It was not meant to be," he calmly replied.

"Fine," she retorted. "I'll stay down. But would you please kindly let go of my arms and . . . get off me!" Again, she tried to twist her body to make her point. She blew away the strands of her hair that escaped her cap and made their way across her face. Frustration at being unable to get out of this man's grip was getting to her.

Not receiving any response from him regarding her demands, Siann decided to try a different approach. Taking a deep breath and a few seconds to collect herself and to calm her pounding heart, she said in a more serene voice, "Would you mind getting your weight off my back, please, monsieur? You are crushing me."

Immediately, she felt his weight shift and her breathing became easier.

"I am most sorry," she heard an apologetic voice in the vicinity of her ear.

For several seconds, she remained in her position, waiting -- whether waiting for him to actually release her or waiting for the sniper to take another shot, she didn't know. She stayed still for awhile, trying to collect her thoughts, assessing the situation. She was lying face down on a gravel suffice with a strange man on top of her, 'protecting' her from some . . . some lunatic.

"This day is just going from bad to worse," she muttered under her breath. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on the rough surface. "I should have stayed in bed this morning," she berated herself. "Yep. That's probably the wisest choice I could have made. Damn! What good is hindsight if you can't do anything about it, anyway?"

"What was that you said?" asked Monsieur 'Would-You-Like-To-Be-The-Next-Available-Target.'

She scowled. Although she understood that the man was only trying to protect her with his own body, she cannot help but resent the fact that she is put in a helpless position in the first place. The thought of owing her life to some stranger did not sit well with her at all. The thought of herself as a damsel in distress was even worse.

With determination written in her face, she twisted her arms, intent on making her 'captor' release her. She felt him tighten his grip in response, only to loosen them again.

"Sorry again," he mumbled. "I did not mean to restrain you quite so hard."

Rubbing the wrists of her now free hands, she tried to raise herself from her current position while carefully trying to avoid any broken glasses in her path. She looked around at the mess she had made in her attack of the blond man.

"Perhaps it is better to stay down for the time being, yes?" the voice behind her asked in a reasonable tone.

"I do not need for you to protect me," she said stiffly. "Now please, perhaps you should watch your own back instead of playing the white knight. After all, it was not me who was shot at, but you and your friend."

"There is always the chance that it is a random shooting, mademoiselle," he returned. "And since we do not know which, is it not better to err in the side of prudence?"

Siann waited for a couple of seconds before answering.

"I don't see how _this _is erring in the side of prudence," she bit out. "Forgive me for stating the obvious, but this man . . . hmmm . . . or woman actually, could be shooting at you instead!"

"You are quite right at that," he responded. She could almost see the smile in that response.

Fuming at his nonchalant answer, she yelled, "I am not a damsel in distress!"

"I never said you were," he stated calmly. So calmly, she believed she might actually choke on it.

"Then why don't you stop treating me like one and get off me!" she growled.

"In a second, mademoiselle," he replied in a distracted voice.

_In a second?  
_  
_I don't think so_, she thought. She tried to budge him again by trying to get to her knees -- without doing bodily harm, of course -- but to no avail.

She's going to have to hurt him. Yes. That's the only answer.

_Let's see, _she thought. What would be the best way for her to inflict enough pain for the man to let her go, but not enough to do any lasting damages? It's such a good thing that Pierre and Zechariah were quite insistent on her learning some self-defense moves. Otherwise --

"You know," she heard him say casually, interrupting her thoughts, "I think maybe our sniper is quite finished with us for the time being."

This time, she succeeded on turning her head and looking at him . . . and proceeded to keep on looking. The man was of Asian descent, probably Indian or around those parts. He had the thickest black hair, a strong jaw line . . . quite handsome actually, but that wasn't what had held her attention. She had the vaguest feeling of dejà vu . . . Shaking her head at her musings, she finally observed what exactly it was he was doing. She watched as he perused their surroundings, their position, the buildings around them. Apparently, he was satisfied with what he saw because he raised himself from her and stood up.

Free of his oppressing close proximity, she turned on her back and was surprised when she found his hand in front of her, offering to help her up. Peering at the man from beneath the rim of her cap, she slowly placed her hand on his and he pulled her to her feet from her prone position.

* * *

The abrupt movement of his helping the quite spirited girl up to her feet succeeded in dislodging the cap from her hair. He stared at her as a cascade of fire fell past her shoulders. He watched as the fire moved in waves while she shook the dust off her clothes. He gaped as her hands tossed the living fire behind her shoulders before she turned to look at him in the eye.

And Hadji Singh found himself looking not only at a familiar set of green eyes, but a familiar face altogether. The face of the girl—woman, really—was older and more mature, but it had the same features. For the first time in his life, Hadji Singh stared to the point of rudeness at another person.

"I suppose I should thank you," she declared, looking at him with those piercing eyes, her voice slightly begrudging.

Words failed him and he continued to stare. He watched as a frown marred her brow when she received no response from him. He watched as she struggled to say something.

"S-so, thank you," she said, as if the words were forced out of her mouth. "_Je regr_ -- I mean, I am sorry for thinking badly of you and your friend," she continued. "It is just when I heard Mic--"

He saw the moment she realized that her . . .child? . . .no, it cannot be. The child had called her by her name . . . what was it? Sheena? No. Siena? No.

What was her name, dammit!

He saw the moment she realized that the child is still with Jon. Her eyes had widened and their green became more pronounced than ever as she looked back at their figures near several overturned tables and chairs.

He observed as she crouched and slowly touch the back of Jon's shoulders as she asked him if he was well. He watched as she carefully extricated Michèl from Jon and comforted the child in her arms.

He could not say a word, afraid that if he did, she would disappear.

He watched with almost something akin to envy as she soothed Michèl with crooning words before sending him off to his friends across the streets. He saw as she watched the child arrive safely in the circle of his friends. He continued on staring as she turned her attention to Jon.

He started to approach her and soon he too was crouched beside Jon's prone and gasping figure. Instead of paying attention to his friend, however, he stared at the back of the woman's head as she talked to Jon.

Her voice. How could he have forgotten the fact that her voice had reminded him of . . .

He raised her fingers to touch her hair and just when it would have made contact--

"Jessie."

He stopped. For a second, he thought it was he who had said the name that had the power to bring him to the brink of . . . He closed his eyes in confusion.

Hesitantly, he opened them again, half-expecting the vision to be gone only to find her still in front of him with Jon. Finally giving Jon a more thorough look, he watched as his friend stared in wonder at the face from their past.

* * *

_I'm dead_, he thought.

Yes. That's the only explanation.

He had died and gone to heaven. What other explanation could there be for her to be here if not for the fact that he was dead?

Funny. He could have sworn that the bullet only succeeded in giving him a minor flesh wound. Painful as hell, but nothing to die over about.

Perhaps he got shot again. Yes. That's it. He more than likely got shot again and that shot killed him instantly.

And now he's in heaven.

With her.

He had never considered himself to be a religious man, but this latest development has him thanking whoever it was up there that granted him his personal heaven.

He stared at her face, memorizing each feature, drowning in her emerald eyes. She looks older than he remembered, but then, who really knew what happened when you get to heaven?

He basked in her care as her hand touched his brow and she smiled softly at him.

_My own angel of mercy_, he thought. "Jessie," he breathed softly.

He winced when she applied pressure in his shoulder.

God! That hurt like --

Wait a minute.

Pain? In heaven? Heaven wasn't supposed to—

She started probing his shoulder and the sensation of pain was amplified.

He gasped. Maybe he wasn't in heaven. Maybe he was in the other one down below.

By the time she has succeeded in peeling off the layer of his shirt from his skin, he was sure of it. For some reason or another, God had decided to send him to this place and appoint her as his punisher. Nothing more than he deserved, really, but—

"Ouch! God dammit!" he yelped as she applied pressure at his shoulder again.

"Stop acting like a baby," she said firmly.

Oh God. Oh God. Her voice . . . her voice.

He shut his eyes, unwilling to look at the face haunted his nights and brought the torments of the damned at his door.

**- - FLASHBACK - -**

"Stop acting like a baby, Jonny," she said, anger evident in her voice.

"I'M acting like a baby," he gasped in indignation, "I'M acting like a baby? What about you! YOU were flirting like a junior high student with that . . . that . . . that idiot--"

"You take that back, Jonny Quest!" she yelled as he saw the fury in her eyes escalate. "You take that back!"

"That you were flirting or that he was an idiot?" he asked, smirking.

"Both!" she bit out, an angry red flush staining her cheek.

"Oh, doctor!" he imitated in a falsetto voice, "Can you do anything for this bird?" He bats his eyelashes for effect. "Doctor!" he began again in his rendition of a high pitched voice, "you are a miracle worker!" He started to make gagging noises.

"Oh, you jerk!" she screamed in the top of her lungs as she lunged at him, obviously intent on doing bodily harm.

He was spared, however, when Race entered the room and stopped her just in time before she reached him.

"Ponchita?" he asked. "Jonny? What's going on here?"

He watched as she visibly tried to calm herself down, her efforts evident by the choking sounds behind her throat. He can see the tears of frustration building in her eyes and for the first time since he did it, he felt a twinge of guilt.

He didn't know what came over him, but the moment he saw her eyes light up at the sight of the good campground doctor, he had been feeling . . . annoyed. Actually, more than annoyed. He had felt . . . irritated. He didn't know what she saw in him anyway, but it had bugged the hell out of him that she let her obvious admiration of the doctor show for all the world to see. To top it all off, the doctor seemed to enjoy her company too.

So he had started teasing her. Unmercifully. Not that she didn't give it back as good as she got, but then, he wasn't in the presence of someone he was trying to impress. Unlike her. The vet was definitely present when he started his attacks. In fact, the good doctor had been present just when Jonny was doing an exaggerated delivery of his interpretation of Jessie's mannerisms around the doctor himself.

His goal? To embarrass her enough to start acting like the regular Jessie he knew, the Jessie that was his friend. But apparently, judging from her expression, he had gone too far.

He watched as she struggled to regain control of her emotions.

If there's anything he knew Jessie hated, it's losing control in front of others.

He watched as she clenched her fingers, her knuckles turning white with the effort. He saw her shake herself from her father's grasp and approach him slowly. His body tensed, ready for her to deliver any blow she might inflict. Only the blow didn't come.

Instead he stared in her tear-filled eyes as she softly said, "I can't believe you did that."

She turned from him and headed out of the house.

"Where are you going?" asked Race.

"I'm going back to our camp," she replied in an unsteady voice. "I think I'll make it an early night tonight." She walked slowly towards the exit.

Jonny saw Race shake his head and go back to talk with Estella in the other room. He continued to watch Jessie as she made her way towards the door.

_Call her back._

Yeah right.

_Call her back._

And say what? Huh?

_Tell her you're sorry._

No way.

_Can't you see how much you've hurt her?_

He remembered the look in her eyes.

"I can't believe you did that," she had said.

Still, he hardened his heart.

_You hurt her._

What about me?

_What about you?_

She . . . she . . . hurt me.

_Oh yeah?_

Yeah! . . . Yeah.

_So you hurt her back?_

Yes . . . I mean NO! No.

He remembered her tear-filled eyes.

_Go to her. NOW._

He looked at where her figure disappeared into the night and began to follow her when he felt someone restrain his arm.

"Perhaps, my friend," said Hadji, "you should allow her to cool down a little."

He looked at his friend's eyes and saw understanding in them.

"You know what happened?" he asked.

Hadji nodded. "Jealousy in an ugly thing, Jonny," he said quietly.

Jonny looked at the exit again, all his righteous indignation drained from his body.

"I am sure she will be receptive to your explanations tomorrow," added Hadji. "Perhaps you should take a break yourself and give yourself time to think about . . . everything. Things will look better in the morning."

Reluctantly, Jonny adhered to his friend's advice. Taking one last look at the exit, he muttered, "I'm sorry," under his breath and followed his friend to the other room.

He had been talking to Hadji and his father for quite some time when the night exploded.

**- - END FLASHBACK - -**

"I'm sorry," he whispered to her, hoping she'd understand. He opened his eyes and looked back at her. "I tried, Jessie," he said pitifully, "I really tried."

"Jessie?" she asked, confusion evident in her features and her voice.

He brought his hand up to her face, touching the soft skin.

"Jon, are you alright?"

He whipped his head to the side and saw his friend.

Hadji? In hell? What the --

"Are you alright?" he asked again.

For the first time since believing he was in heaven, Jon finally took the time to look at his surroundings.

Paris. Café. Ground.

"I'm not dead," he stated.

"Certainly not, monsieur," she said.

He looked back at her.

"Did I lose a lot of blood, Hadji?" he asked his friend, but not taking his eyes of _her._

"Quite a few," replied Hadji with an edge in his voice.

Jon sighed with relief. "You're a figment of my fervid imagination," he said to her. "I'm in shock and that's why I'm seeing you."

He saw her frown in confusion.

"Jon," he heard Hadji call. He turned to look at his friend.

"Yes?" he asked in reply.

"I am afraid I do not have your excuse for seeing her, my friend," he stated.

He turned back to look at her and rub his hand against her cheek.

"Do not move," she said in her soft voice. "You will only aggravate your --"

Her voice . . .

"Jessie," he said gently, looking deeply into her green eyes. "Jessie."

* * *

Revised October 10, 2004 


	12. Chapter Eleven: A Darker Reflection

**The One and Only Jessie Bannon – A Jonny Quest: The Real Adventures Fanfiction**

**By Akane-Rei **

**_Chapter Eleven: A Darker Reflection_**

**_

* * *

_**

_Second thoughts . . ._

"What exactly did you mean when you said, 'Things did not go as planned'?" he bit out, trying to keep his anger in check from the idiot in the other line who had the gall to keep him waiting. He had been pacing the living room of the house ever since he had given the order to execute his plans while this good-for-nothing mercenary had the utter gall to stall him with the information he needed.

He took a deep breath and forcibly held himself in one place as he waited for the man's answer. He leaned against the wall, closing his eyes as the back of his head rested against the smooth cool surface.

Everything had to, just had to go as planned. He didn't think he was up to another round of what he just went through.

_Second thoughts . . ._

My God, what kind of man was he?

The moment, the very moment he had given the order to end the lives of Jonathon Quest and Hadji Singh, something inside him had twisted and revolted at the words he had just spoken. He was a protector. Above all else, he had dedicated his life to protecting another life from those who seek to harm her. What he did, what he had just ordered to be done, went against the very creed he had lived by and it had taken all his will power to actually deliver the words. It had taken even more than that not to retract his directive once he had given it.  
_  
Second thoughts . . ._

But something, apparently, had gone wrong. He had heard his . . . 'hired gun's' string of expletives just a moment after he had given the fateful words to doom the lives of individuals he hardly met. He had vaguely heard the fact that his sniper had packed in quite a hurry several seconds later while muttering about lapses of judgments.

Something had definitely gone wrong.

"You will tell me NOW exactly what happened," he said hoarsely in his end of the line.

Still he heard no answer.

_Second thoughts?_

NO!

Clenching the fist of his free hand, he pounded it to the wall behind him as he tries to piece together what could have happened. First of all, he didn't have much to work with. Hell, he didn't even know where the damn sniper was when he found Quest and Singh; he didn't want to know, actually, which was why he hadn't asked. They were within the range and that was all that mattered. Until now. Because something, apparently, went wrong. He knew it.

"I missed," a voice roughly said in the other line.

Jerking from his reverie, he looked blindly in front of him.

"You missed?" he said tightly, almost disbelievingly. Missed? That had not been one of the options. Once the target is sighted, Luc had assumed that the man would have no trouble doing his job. His reputation for getting his assignments done had been one of the reasons Luc had hired him in the first place. And now, this extremely overpriced killer is stating that he _missed_?

"It wasn't a kill shot," his hired mercenary expanded.

"I gathered that," Luc replied, trying to reign in the temper he had been striving to control since his confrontation with Siann. He can feel the blood rush into his head as he pondered the implications of what this fiasco would result.

Zechariah would find out.

He always does.

"I believe," he said coolly to his incompetent assasinator, "that due to this failure, our business dealings will now have to be terminated. I'll-- "

"Wait!" shouted the man in the other line. "I can do this. I know I can. Just give me some time and I can make other arrangements--"

"No!" he interrupted. "No," he said more softly as he gently, but decisively, terminated the call.

_Second thoughts._

The beautiful ray of sunshine that made its presence known through the large glass windows of the living room went unnoticed as he stood there in his position for a while, staring into the blackness that yawned in front of him out of nowhere. The chirping of the birds outside is the only sound that accompanied the clatter which the communicator made as it fell from his nerveless fingers.

His duty was to protect Siann at all costs. The elimination of Quest and Singh would have guaranteed her safety. This attempt failed and it scared him that he didn't know whether to be frustrated by this turn of events or . . . relieved.

_Who are you?_

* * *

He walked the halls of his home with a purposeful stride. The sound of his heel as it hit the marble floor echoed loudly around the corridors of the almost deserted house. Every window's curtains were drawn, as if in an attempt to keep the outside world from interfering with the gray atmosphere of every room. Cold. That was the general feel of the whole place. Cold -- to match the icy feel of fear as it flowed through his veins. Cold.

He never thought he would feel fear again. When his world collapsed around him, there had been nothing left to care about enough to feel fear for. When he had rescued Carla from her abductors, he had thought that he could provide a safe haven for her from everything. While it's true some might call his ways a little excessive, it's also true that it provided for healthier existence where Carla was concerned. And her well-being was his priority.

When the Quest team had seen her and chased her down the streets, he had devised a methodical plan to rid her of their threat. The plan was not up to the standards of the usual Ezekiel Rage, but that could be understood seeing that he does have a daughter to protect. After all, to destroy the world now would mean also destroying the one thing he held dear. And that is not an option. So, he had formulated a plan which he felt confident would work and was in fact in the process of executing it when one of his agents informed of an incident which might interest him. It seems that Siann nearly got in the line of fire when a sniper had tried to do away with the Quest team..

The mental picture had brought chills down his spine the fear that gripped him at that moment was something he would care not to experience again.

He would have to kill Luc for doing that to him. His agents were quite resourceful in extracting the information he needed from the sniper, who was more than willing to give the name of his fickle employer. Luc's carelessness had endangered his daughter and damned if he wasn't going to do something about it.

He stopped in front of the door to a room which he'd never thought he'd ever have to open again. Spreading his palms towards its wooden surface, he took a deep breath as he prepared himself to face the demons which drove him. He turned the knob of the door and entered. Taking no notice of the musky scent of the unused room or the heavy layers of dust that settled in all the furniture, he flinched as the warmth of the sun from the open window touched his face. Tightening his black-gloved hands into a ball of fist, he approached the podium in the room and stared at the familiar leather-bound book on top of it.

A vision . . . no, a memory . . . struggled hard to resurface into his consciousness as he got nearer the book. The voices of that called out to him as he was sucked into the depths of the sea reverberated in his ears. He can still hear a cry for someone --

_Jessie!_

NO! He shook his head and snatched the book from its place of rest for over a decade now.

"The Quest team's evil shall not contaminate my daughter!" he yelled. "So sayeth the Book of Rage!"

* * *

Everything else faded into the background.

Siann smiled at the man before her and gently placed her hand in his forehead.

The look in his blue eyes, the softening of his expression, and the fervent hope in his gaze made her envy whoever it was he thought she was. And for a moment, she considered being her -- at least for the time being. The thought of being the person to bring such look of tenderness, such look of wonder to this man's eyes was a heady feeling -- one that she found she craved. Rationality took over before she could put that thought into action, however, and she gave herself a mental shake.

"You are mistaken," she said softly. "My name is not Jessie."

She looked closely at him, noting his ashen expression. She was sure he would have disagreed with her had not for the fact that he lost the battle for his consciousness at that moment.

"Excuse me," she heard from above her.

She looked up and saw the uniformed individuals attempting to get to the man she was holding. The paramedics have arrived and she didn't even notice it. Carefully, she moved out of their way and let them do their jobs. Standing up, she looked down at them with concern when she felt someone tap her on her shoulder. She looked up and saw one of the paramedics smiling gently at her.

"Mademoiselle," he said softly, "We should do something about that graze in your arm, yes?"

The moment he mentioned her arm, she felt a twinge of pain that emanated from the said appendage. Startled, she looked at her arm and was surprised to discover trickles of blood sliding from her elbow and into her fingers.

"But of course," she said in a small voice, letting herself be led away to be treated.

She finally took the time to look at her appearance in general while her . . . scratches were being bandaged. To be honest, she looked a mess. She was pretty sure that the large splotches of blood on her shirt weren't all from her arm.

"If you would come with us," someone said, as they indicated towards the white vehicle.

She shook her head. "I'm fine," she said. "I do not need to go to the hospital."

For some reason, it seemed important to her not to go to the hospital.

"But mademoiselle--"

"No," she said adamantly. "I'm quite alright. Really."

She looked again at her bloody shirt, smelling the rusty odor.

Brushing away their helpful hands, she stood up precariously and tried to walk away from them.

She staggered and felt a set of arms envelope her.

"Perhaps you should take their advise and go to the hospital with Jon?" he said as he pulled her up to her feet.

A phantom smell made its way to her consciousness.

Looking up at him, she said, "Jon?"

"My friend," he expanded, staring at her with an unreadable expression.

Disengaging herself from the dark-skinned stranger, she looked back at his friend as he was placed on a stretcher. Steadier this time, she took a few steps forward and watched as people began to try to put order in the chaos the existed a few minutes before.

"I'm fine," she said again, more firmly this time. "Just a small delayed reaction."

"Which is why it would be better if you accompany us to the hospital," he insisted, his hand touching her arm.

The clicking of heels in an echoing hallway and the heavy smell of disinfectants . . .

Doctors and nurses rushing from one room to another . . .

The clink of metallic instruments . . .

"No," she said again, shaking his hand off. "I really should be getting home now." Turning to face him, she looked back at him again and said, "Thank you again for you attempt to protect Michèl. Please send my regrets to your friend about my . . . haste in hurling objects at him." With that, she ran.

* * *

"Where is she?" Jon demanded the moment he woke up from his drug-induced sleep.

Hadji sighed. He knew Jon would ask him that. In fact, he had been preparing for that question. The problem was that all his preparation did not change the fact that despite his efforts otherwise, he had been unsuccessful in discovering the whereabouts of the woman from the café.

"Did I mention that I called your father in Maine and he said that he was on his way here?" Hadji said instead of answering the question.

"Hadji," said Jon in a tone of voice which Hadji knew well, "where is she?"

"Did I also mention that Race and his family were apparently there on a surprise visit?" Hadji continued. "It would seem that Race, Estella, and Linna are also going to be on their way here."

A far away look entered Jon's eyes for the moment and for a second Hadji thought he had succeeded in distracting his friend -- but only for a second.

"You don't know where she is, do you?" Jon asked almost in an accusing tone.

Hadji sighed.

"No, I do not," he answered. "She ran from the scene after the paramedics patched her up"

A look of panic entered Jon's eyes. "She was hurt?" he demanded.

"I believe it was just a minor cut," he replied.

He winced when expletives flew out of Jon's mouth in response to this information.

Hadji watched as Jon struggled to sit up from his prone position before putting a halt to it by firmly pushing him back to the bed.

"You need to rest," he stated with a calm he hardly feels.

"We have to find her," Jon said insistently, looking at him imploringly. In those eyes, Hadji saw a look of almost desperation.

"We will," he said reassuringly. He hoped. Then, he reluctantly broached a pertinent issue. "Jon," he began carefully, "You know it is not her, yes?"

* * *

Not her? Of course he knew it wasn't her. It couldn't be her.

Couldn't it?

NO! Of course not. Intellectually, he knew that.

He lay back down in the hospital bed. Despite what all his rational thought was telling him, however, he couldn't help but feel that he has been given a second chance.

A second chance for what, he is a little unclear of.

"She could have passed for her twin," he said softly. He turned to Hadji. "She didn't have any sisters we didn't know about, did she?"

Hadji shook his head. "Race would have told us," he replied.

Sitting back up, Jon frowned. "Did you just say that Race and his family are coming here?" he asked incredulously.

Hadji nodded. "They were quite concerned to hear about someone taking a shot at you."

"Did you tell them . . . did you mention--"

"That there is a double ringer in our midst?" Hadji asked ruefully. "No."

Jon slumped back in the bed. "They'll know soon enough," he muttered.

"My friend," Hadji began apprehensively, "I am not sure if that is the wisest course of action."

"I'll find her, Hadji," he replied, his voice full of purpose.

He saw Hadji begin to pace the room only to come back by his bedside and take him by the shoulders.

"Listen, Jon," he said in a serious tone, "That woman may look like her, but she is not. You heard her. She even said her name was not Jessie." He paused. "Not that she could be since our Jessie is --"

Jon looked back at him with grim determination. "I'll find her," he reiterated.

* * *

_I looked up from my huddle position, staring disbelievingly at the scene in front of me. I've been in darkness for so long that my eyes hurt from just looking at this vision. This beam of light that came from the wall of my cell was faint, but in contrast to the blackness that has been part of my life for so long, I thought it looked like the sun. For a moment, I contemplated the fact that what I was seeing was the light of heaven. People always said that you see a bright light when you die, so I figured, this is it. This was my light, my path._

_The excruciating pain in my eyes, however, quickly made me discard that notion. Striving to adjust my senses to the faint glow, I finally succeeded and began approaching the source carefully, crawling carefully towards it. I tried to keep my eyes open and directed at that light, afraid that if I so much as blink, this miracle granted upon me would disappear._

_Once I reached the wall, I hesitatingly placed my hand on that part of the wall that emitted the light. To my surprise, the surface was smooth, very unlike the rough and grainy surface around it._

_I wanted to look at it. Not look at it as I am doing now, but actually __look at it. I wanted to see that it is smooth, not just feel. I wanted to see that it is different from the surrounding surface, not just touch. And with the help of its light, I could do that. Now if only my eyes would cooperate . . ._

_It took awhile. My eyes were so unused to light that the pain of looking directly at this faint glow caused me to wince in pain for several minutes -- or hours, I can't tell anymore -- but it was worth it. The first thing I saw was the reflection of my hand as it touched its surface._

_I smiled. Color. My hands had color. It's been a long time since I've seen color in my life and my eyes lingered over the pale color of my hand's skin. I never considered myself a connoisseur of beauty before. I've always thought of it as artificial and temporary. But seeing color after being deprived of it for so long showed me that beauty is not the elusive pursuit that plenty of people strive for. It is simply itself. And right now, beauty is color._

_Gently rubbing my hand against this smooth and lighted surface, I slowly crawled nearer to it until I was directly in front of it. Hesitantly, I removed my hand from its surface and looked._

_I was surprised. I saw my own concerned face staring back at me curiously. Nothing's changed, really. The smudge of dirt in my cheek was even a welcome presence. Dad had always said I was a rambunctious child and turning into a teenager has not changed that. I smiled at my sixteen year old face. It was my green eyes, my red hair, my pert nose, my rosy mouth . . .my__ everything. It was me. I exist. I haven't changed a bit. Me. The same old . . . me._

_The only difference is . . . I wasn't the same. Deep down inside me, I know that I wasn't the same. In the time I've spent in this prison, I've changed. The innocent face that stared back at me was a lie. I was no longer that innocent. I was no longer that trusting. I suffered, dammit! But the face that looked back at me belied that fact, denied my changes. I smiled bitterly._

_I touched my cheek and watched __her touch her cheek. My fingers curled as they trembled just as hers did. I took a deep breath and tried to even my breathing. A small part of me wanted to be the girl I see in the wall to be me. A yearning exists inside of me to be that girl, that innocent girl._

_It was tempting._

_To go back and deny the reality of my situation, to pretend that nothing happened, to be that girl again was so easy . . .all I had to do is slip into that fantasy world and lose myself, numb myself._

_But I won't. I didn't survive this long in this cell by taking the easy way out._

_I saw my reflection shrug, as if in acceptance of my decision. Again, I stared at myself, bewildered at my unchanging appearance. That was when I heard it. It was so soft, so faint, that I almost missed it. It came from the wall, the smooth part of the wall. At first, I stared disbelievingly at this lighted surface and I can see my counterpart do the same. But then I heard it again._

_It was him._

_And he called my name._

_My name._

_Oh, God. He's here._

_Suddenly the light intensified and I closed my eyes to protect them. When I was finally able to open my eyes, I was again surrounded by darkness, by blackness. I sat back down and leaned against the wall. Despair at this development would have swallowed me had it not been for the echoing of his voice -- in my mind -- calling my name. My name._

_I'm here, I thought. __I'm real._

_Tears began to form in my eyes. A tightening began in my chest._

_"Thank you," I whisper softly. "Thank you." And for the first time in a long time, hope began to blossom uncontrollably within me._

* * *

Revised October 10, 2004 


	13. Chapter Twelve: Americans In Paris

**The One and Only Jessie Bannon – A Jonny Quest: The Real Adventures Fanfiction**

**by Akane-Rei **

**_Chapter Twelve: Americans in Paris_**

**_

* * *

_**

Jonathon Quest leaned his head against the window of the hotel, grimacing as the sling in his left arm made his position awkward. He stared down at the bustle in the streets as he once again called to mind the logical reasons which Hadji gave him as to why he's up here instead of somewhere down there, searching for . . . a ghost.

For all intents and purposes, the woman at the café might as well have been a ghost.

_A name_, he thought. _We just need a name._

A name was enough. He could have IRIS give him every other detail he wanted as long as he had a name to work with.

As long as he had a name . . .

Something he hoped Hadji would have at the end of the day.

He closed his eyes, remembering her face. He really needed a name . . . something to call her . . .

If he were honest with himself, he needed the name more for himself than for IRIS. He needed a name to replace the one he'd given her the moment he saw her.

"Uncle Jonny?" came a voice behind him.

Startled out of his thoughts, he turned around and looked at the small red- haired girl who was staring at him with open curiosity in her familiar green eyes. With a grin pasted on his face, he crouched down beside her as he ruffled her hair.

"Shouldn't you be in bed?" he asked in a mock-serious tone as he drew her near him and gave her a hug.

Maria Elena Bannon -- or Linna as she was often called -- giggled. "It's not night anymore," she protested, pointing at the morning rays that streamed through the windows.

"Ahh," said Jon, nodding his head sagely. "My mistake," he said with a smile.

But Linna's attention was already diverted. Jon watched as the little girl's green eyes became fixated at the sling in his arm. Her brows marred with concentration as she touched the white material gently with her fingertips.

"Does it hurt?" she asked solemnly, her eyes grim and serious for her age.

"Nah," he replied, watching the play of emotions in her face. "Well, not too much," he revised as he watched the confusion in her countenance.

She pursed her lips and continued to stare.

He almost laughed. It always amazed him whenever he noticed the degree of resemblance between Race and Estella's second daughter with their first. He had seen some pictures of Jessie when she was Linna's age, and he would have sworn they were one and the same had he not known that Jessie's pictures were taken over a decade earlier. And right now, Linna had a very Jessie-like expression on her face. It was an expression of exasperation tinged with the frustration of being unable to do anything about it.

Linna frowned.

_Yep,_ he thought. _Jessie all the way._

"Momma said that some bad guys hurt you," she informed him. "Did you get them back? Did you shoot them back?"

He made a rueful face. "Not quite," he replied, remembering the circumstances of the encounter.

Her frown deepened. "That's okay," she said comfortingly. "I'll punch them for you."

Her arms went around his shoulders as a gesture of her support. "I saw on TV this guy punch this one guy and he bled a lot. Papa said that he'll teach me how to fight bad guys so that they won't hurt me. Didn't your daddy teach you how to fight bad guys, Uncle Jonny?" She looked at him earnestly. "Don't worry. I'll protect you."

"Thank you," he replied seriously, knowing that for all her innocence, Maria Elena Velasquez-Bannon meant every word she said.

He laughed as he saw her chin jut out in determination.

_Yep,_ he thought. _More like her everyday._ He tried to lift her up, only to remember that one of his arms was incapacitated.

"Tell you what," he said in a bargaining tone, "when this sling is taken out, I'll carry you around Paris." He held out his hand. "Deal?"

Linna nodded up to him as she waved to someone behind him.

Turning, Jon saw Race Bannon approach them with a mug of coffee in his hand.

"Jon," he said gravely. "Awake at last."

Jon sighed and stood up. To be honest, he had never been asleep since the moment he got back from the hospital. However, he was prudent enough to want to avoid discussing the situation until he found who he was looking for. He didn't know how Race and Estella would handle the fact that a woman who looks exactly like the reincarnation of their dead daughter exists.

"Race," he said, clasping the other man's arm with his own.

"Mind explaining that?" Race said in reply, pointing at the sling in his arm.

"Ah, Race," he cajoled. "You know me."

"Exactly," replied the former bodyguard. He turned to his daughter and said, "Linna, why don't you see if your mom's awake, alright?"

Linna nodded her head and ran to the bedroom.

As Linna left, Race turned his attention back to Jon. "I know you," he continued, "which means that despite all the trouble you seem to have a talent of getting into, you rarely seek them out."

Jon shrugged. "The authorities think it may just be a random shooting," he said lightly.

A sound of disbelief escaped from Race. "I've lived with your family long enough to know that things like this are rarely, if ever, random where the Quests are concerned," he said tightly.

Jon turned to look out of the window, raising his good arm to touch the glass.

"I know what you mean," he replied quietly.

In his pursuit to find the identity of the woman in the café, he had deliberately put off all concerns regarding the shooting. When he should have been investigating the cause and finding the culprit, he instead had Hadji running around the city searching for her.

"I'm going to look into this," stated Race, interrupting his thoughts.

Jon nodded imperceptibly. He could feel Race's eyes boring the back of his head, almost willing him to look back.

"I'll help you with it," he said after a minute. "I just need to tie up some loose ends."

"Loose ends?" asked Race, perplexed.

Again, Jon nodded and left it at that.

He felt more than heard Race leave the room after a while.

* * *

Estella Velasquez Bannon glanced at her husband from the corner of her eye as he dazedly entered their bedroom and leaned against the door he just closed. She felt her heart skip the beat it always does when she sees him. She almost blushed at her girlish response. Race always had that effect on her, even during their divorce years ago. She wondered whether it will always be that way. Giving him another quick look from her position by the window, she observed as his forehead creased the way it usually did when he's deep in thought.

"Well?" she asked in a somewhat impatient voice after five minutes of waiting in silence.

She watched as he slowly sat on the bed, an inscrutable expression on his face.

"I don't think he knows anything more than we do right now," he said tersely.

"What about the girl?" she inquired, somewhat mollified after his inattention.

"What girl?" Race asked, looking up at her.

"The girl Hadji's looking for," she replied, beginning to get irritated. "Linna told me that Hadji told her that he's off to look for a girl that Jon had met."

She looked closely at her husband, searching for a sign that this was a male conspiracy to keep the female uninformed.

"This is the first time I've heard of this," stated Race, confusion evident in his face.

She sighed. She had been hoping that Linna was talking about some woman that Jon might be seeing. Heavens knew it was time that boy had a serious relationship. She had thought maybe that Hadji was looking for her because she might be concerned about Jon's condition.

"Oh well," she said, disappointed.

She saw Race come up in front of her and take her shoulders.

He smiled, pulling her chin up for her to face him.

"You're not thinking . . .you know..." he let his voice drift.

She felt her color rise at her cheeks. There were times when it just didn't do to be a red head.

"Aww c'mon, 'Stella," he said teasingly, his finger rubbing her cheek. "He just got shot, for crying out loud. He has no time for--"

She poked his ribs. Hard.

"Who knows?" she asked defensively. "She could have been a nurse who held his hand in the hospital--"

He snorted.

"Or someone he already knew," she finished, giving his ribs a playful punch.

Race laughed. "I doubt it," he said. "Benton hasn't said anything about it and I got the impression that Jon's too much of a workaholic nowadays."

"Stop laughing at me," she ordered. Grinning mischievously, she wrapped her arms around his neck and looked up at him, teasing, "Is it wrong of me to hope that he's lucky enough to find someone who could make him as happy as you make me?"

He smiled. "You're as bad as Neela," he said, "you know that, don't you?"

She nodded unrepentantly.

"So tell me, what else did Linna say?" he asked, gently touching the strands of her hair that escaped the loose bun on her head.

She leaned against him, resting her head against his chest, listening to his heart beat.

"That's it," she replied. "From the impression I got, Hadji was off somewhere in a hurry to tell her anything more than that."

"Hmmm," he said, almost thoughtfully, kissing the top of her head. "Where is Linna, by the way?"

She smiled. "With Benton having breakfast," she replied, before kissing his mouth.

* * *

Benton Quest smiled as he listened to Linna's laughing chatter over the breakfast table. It had been a long time since had had listened to such carefree laughter. In fact, it had been a long time since he had heard the sound of any child over the breakfast table.

_Perhaps too long,_ he thought, giving he son a speculative look, through the open doorway. It had been a long time since he had been able to call Jon a child. Although there were times when, as trite as it sounds, his son's childhood seems just like yesterday, all Benton had to do was look into Jon's eyes to bring reality back to him. Jon's eyes no longer had the bright and innocent glow it used to have; instead, Jon's eyes exceeded his age.

Benton looked thoughtfully at Linna, then back at Jon. This relaxing trip to Paris was not turning out as it was supposed to. Not only was there someone taking shots at his sons, there's this latest development regarding a double ringer for Jessie. After demanding to know why is it that Hadji had not taken a more thorough search for the sniper at the café, Hadji had reluctantly informed him of this . . . complication. He did not quite know what to make of this situation. He admitted to Hadji that he did not quite know what to make of this situation. Although he had nothing against this girl they say, he couldn't help but wish that his sons had never laid eyes on her at all.

Jon was much better in regards to his mental and emotional health regarding her Jessie's . . . death; but Benton would be the first to admit that Jon was far from a full recovery. The occasional presence of the nightmares that plague his son as well as the insomnia that often results from those nightmares were enough to give one pause for concern. However, Jon had stopped seeing Jessie in the crowd and this incident, Benton feared, could be enough to revert his son back to his old ways.

He looked back at Linna and watched her daintily, and yet with gusto, finish her food. He looked at the miniature version of the face that haunted his son's sleeping moments and took a deep breath. Despite being a man of science, he had a bad feeling about this whole thing.

* * *

She was cold.

She felt the coldness caress her . . .

_We had so little time,_ the coldness said.

She felt the coldness wrap her in it arms . . .

And for a moment, she thought she heard a heartbeat. The heartbeat of the cold.

She felt the coldness suffocate her . . .

She couldn't breathe.

She couldn't breathe.

SHE COULDN'T BREATHE!

She was light . . .

SHE COULDN'T BREATHE!

She was floating . . .

SHE COULDN'T BREATHE!

She screamed for help . . .

And opened her eyes.

Siann stared at the ceiling, blindly looking at the morning rays of the sun as they streamed through the glass window panes. She stared, as the light scattered and separated, creating the array of rainbow colors. She stared at the ceiling, feeling the sweat drench her nightclothes.

She had woken up to the sound of her own scream. Again.

She glanced at the doorway, wondering if Luc heard her. She wondered where he was. Usually, at this point, he would come barging into her room, demanding to know what's wrong. Or, in some cases, just sitting down to hold her. There were times when his comforting was welcome, but there were times -- rare ones, at that -- when his very presence almost feels like an intrusion. In those times, she often wondered at her almost instinctive withdrawal.

She wondered if he ever felt her wince at his touch at times during her nightmares.

She wondered a lot.

Funny that she should think of that now.

She turned her head back and resumed staring at the ceiling. She shivered and felt the familiar clammy feeling take over her body. Rubbing her damp arms with her hands, she curled into a fetal position and burrowed herself deeper into her blankets.

She was cold.

* * *

Hadji sat by the pavement of the small café and waited. The garçon had informed him that the children who played around here usually arrived by midmorning and he was anxiously awaiting for that time. In particular, he was waiting for Michèl, the child that Jon had tried to protect. With luck, Michèl could give him the name of the woman. The unfortunate thing with names was that there exists a number of spellings for a particular one. While Hadji was almost certain the girl's name had been Sian, the fact that he did not have a last name to go with it makes the search a trifle harder.

The regulars at the café had been unhelpful in this extent. For some reason, they seem quite closemouthed about giving any information regarding the person in question. This brings to mind the question as to _why _they would be so reluctant to give him a name in the first place. There were times when he would swear that they seemed almost afraid.

He wondered if it was his imagination.

The sound of laughing children drew his attention to the corner of the street. There, the sight of children playing could be seen. This time, however, the presence of hovering mothers were also seen. Perhaps the incident yesterday had made them all more careful. He looked more closely. The boy, Michèl, was not among the laughing bunch.

Hadji shrugged as he slowly got to his feet and approached the laughing group of children. He watched as they looked at him with trepidation in their eyes.

"Pardonnez-moi," he said hesitantly, looking at both the mothers and the children. "Je cherche--"

"Vous êtes americain?" interrupted one of the women, approaching him from their circle.

He nodded, watching as the woman slowly drew one of the children next to her, placing a protective arm around him.

"Yesterday," she said slowly, looking at him carefully, "your friend, he protected Michèl, yes?"

"Oui, Madame," he replied, "in a way. I came here to ask if perhaps one of the children could give me the name of the woman who was here yesterday."

The woman continued to look at him steadily without responding. He almost wondered whether she understood him at all.

Finally she asked, "Why do you look for her?"

"I just wanted to ask her some questions," he began, which was true. He did want to ask her some questions. "About the incident yesterday morning," he continued, which was also true. Some of his questions would more than likely pertain the events yesterday.

She stared at him for a few seconds more before answering, "Michèl is my nev-- nephew." Again she stared at his eyes. "I thank you and your friend for your efforts to protect him. Which is why I tell you that you are looking for Madame Rénard. Siann Rénard." She nods her head towards the café. "She usually draws pictures of the children when she is here.

Hadji arched his brow.

"She is an artist?" he voiced the question to himself, only to have the woman nod her head at him.

"Oui," she replied, before turning her back at him and going back to her circle of friends.

"Wait!" he called out.

She stopped and looked back at him with inquiring eyes.

"You do not happen to know where she lives, do you?" he asked plaintively.

The woman shook her head solemnly and again turned her back to him.

Hadji nodded slowly as he placed his hands in the pockets of his trousers. He looked back at the café, not really surprised to see the curious eyes of the people sitting on the outside tables. Taking a deep breath, he started the walk back to the hotel.

* * *

"You almost killed her," he said softly, looking at the man before him.

Zechariah Colère walked slowly, deliberately towards his prey. He watched his prey close his eyes and swallow convulsively.

"You almost killed her," he said softly again, with a slight edge in his inflection.

He watched the man collapse on his knees, his hands supporting him against the floor. He watched as the man almost slips because of the slippery patch on the floor that resulted from the sweat that glistened across his forehead, dripping slowly against the marble tiles the moment his legs ceased to support him.

"You almost killed her," he snarled softly at the man's left ear, revealing slightly the extent of his rage.

The man on the floor started to sob, his deep breaths echoing the great hall.

Zechariah backhanded the man, sending him across the room. The sound of the man's back hitting the wall could be heard throughout the house.

"I should kill you now," he stated calmly, as he stood over the hunched man, "however, I do believe that you deserve more than what that pathetic excuse of a sniper you hired."

Luc slowly raised his head to look at him.

"What do you mean?" he gasped out, choking a little.

Zechariah crouched before him.

"You will remember this episode, won't you?" he asked softly.

Luc coughed uncontrollably for a few seconds before being able to answer and affirmative.

"Good," replied Zechariah. "Now, I want you to stay close to Siann for the duration of the Quests' stay in Paris."

He stood up slowly.

"Go now," he said quietly and he watched as Luc staggered to his feet, leaving him alone in the room.

The sound of footsteps behind him made him turn and look at the approaching individual.

"Was that just a dead man that walked out of here?" he was asked bluntly.

"Everyone dies eventually," he replied. "Some just sooner than others."

"Poor bastard," the man returned. "He was real worried about her nightmares, you know."

"Be that as it may," Zechariah began.

The man held up both hands in a gesture of mock surrender.

"You don't have to tell me," he stated. "I don't need to know. Just tell me when you want the death certificate and all other pertinent documents and I'll provide it."

"Just like before," Zechariah said softly.

"Just like before," he reiterated.

"Why thank you, doctor," he purred.

* * *

Revised October 10, 2004 


	14. Chapter Thirteen: Tangled Webs

Author's note: Song interwoven in the chapter is by Sarah McLachlan

* * *

**The One and Only Jessie Bannon – A Jonny Quest: The Real Adventures Fanfiction**

**By Akane-Rei **

_**Chapter Thirteen: Tangled Webs**_

_**

* * *

**_

_  
**"What ravages of spirit conjured this temptous rage . . ."**_

**- - FLASHBACK- -**

He had to get them out of here.

Right turn here.

They wouldn't help him.

"Hold on tight, Abby," he muttered as he looked at the rearview mirror.

He felt his teeth grinding, his mouth tightening to a thin line just when he saw the car following them. He gripped the wheel tightly, seeing his knuckles turn white. He pushed down the accelerator a little harder, knowing that he was already driving as fast as this Cadillac can go.

Curve ahead.

His own country, a country he had served to the best of his abilities, would not help him.

_Damn them,_ he thought. _DAMN them!_

He pounded his fist against the wheel, hearing his wife give a little gasp. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, seeing her bite her lip, her hands holding tight at the console. He saw her lick her lips and glance behind at their daughter.

_Carla,_ he thought, before focusing his attention on the road ahead of them. His arms moved with lightning quick reflexes on the wheel resulting from years of training. The turns and twists he'd had to make due to their current speed were too sharp for his comfort, especially with his family in the car with him.

Quick left.

He HAD to get them out of here!

He felt the trip hammer pounding of his heart against his chest, wondering in the back of his mind how his ribs could contain it furious beating. He glanced back at the rearview mirror, hoping against hope that he had lost his pursuers, yet knowing in his gut that he would see the car tailing them as fast as he was driving.

His country, his reason for being in this situation in the first place, would not help him. Would not help his family.

_God damn them_, he thought.

"GOD DAMN THEM!" he shouted in frustration.

"Daddy?" interrupted a soft, trembling voice behind him.

He felt a burning sensation in the back of his eyes.

"Daddy?" she reiterated with the same tremulous ring.

Another sharp left.

He swallowed.

"Not now, Carla," he replied abruptly. "Daddy's busy."

And a right.

_They'll pay for this_, he thought_. They'll pay for this._

He began to hear the stifled sounds of sniffling, growing louder by the second. He heard his wife give soothing noises from her side of the car. But another sound caught his attention and made his blood run cold.

_Guns_! he thought.

He . . . Had . . . To . . . Get . . . Them . . .Out . . . Of . . .Here!

"I'm . . . I'm sor-sor-sorry," came the sound of his daughter's voice between her sobs. "Don't be m-m-mad."

"Hush, baby," he heard Abby's comforting voice, "Daddy's not angry."

"I . . . I (hic) . . . I just wanted (hic) . . . to (hic) . . . see the skeletons," came another entreaty.

"Shhhh," came Abby's gentle voice.

He felt more than saw his wife reach out from her seat to give Carla a reassuring touch just when he heard the shattering of glass. He heard both his daughter and his wife's screams of surprise as shards of glass rained on all of them, cutting them. He felt the nicks on his face and turned to his wife and daughter to see how they fared. He saw his wife crouching down at the same time reaching for Carla. Carla looked at him with frightened eyes, clutching her skeleton doll pathetically with her tiny arms against her chest. Blood was beginning to stain the doll. His eyes widened in anger just as another wave of gunfire echoed from behind. The sight of his bleeding wife and daughter was enough to cause break his concentration from the road.

HE HAD TO GET THEM OUT OF HERE!

"D-Daddy?" cracked a voice behind him. "I . . ."

The sound of wheezing breath could be heard.

_Hang on, baby,_ he thought.

"I . . ." came her voice again, "I . . . I h-h-hurt," she murmured this time.

More gunfire.

He felt the wheel spinning out of control from his hands. He felt the car spin, throwing him and his family against the sides of the doors.

And suddenly, there was no road in front of them, only air.

'They'll pay for this,' he thought, watching with an almost morbid fascination as the car begins to rapidly descend. 'I'll have my revenge.'

"DADDY!"

_Carla...Abby..._

**- - END FLASHBACK- -**

* * *

**_"Created you a monster . . ."_**

He stared intently at the dark, clear liquor as it swirled around the glass on his hand. Through the glass, he can just about see the fireplace where the crackling of fire echoed around the hall. The soft shadows that result from the only source of light in the room loomed over him, as if to engulf him, to meld with him. He gave a sardonic smile at his sudden imaginative wanderings and swallowed the contents of his glass, feeling the burning liquid travel down his throat.

Ah...but he outdid himself this time.

He had found a perfect plan to rid his daughter of the Quest team.

Although the plan lacked somewhat of the extravagant flair his usual plans have, it would suit his needs. The only thing it would require on his part was patience.

He poured himself another glass of brandy and toasted an imaginary companion. While it's true that he was gambling a lot on what he knows of his daughter and her personality, it was a gamble he was willing to take. Throughout these years, if there was something he was sure of about Car-- Siann, it was her love and loyalty. He gave a slight sneer and wondered what those damn Quests would think if they knew that in the end, it would be them, and not him who would drive Siann from their grasps.

Ezekiel Rage gave a deep sigh of contentment.

All is about to be well in the world.

* * *

**_"Broken by the rule of love . . ."_**

**- - FLASHBACK- -**

He stared at the skies, watching as the slow moving clouds shifted and changed their formations.

_She's alive,_ he thought.

He continued to watch the sky, playing a game long remembered.

"It's a dog, Daddy," she said in her high-pitched voice. "It's a dog with a hat."

"Oh really?" he asked, turning his head to stare at her intent blue green eyes.

He grinned as she bobbed her head up and down.

"Nah," he teased. "Those are just huge cotton balls floating up there for some reason."

"Daddy!" she exclaimed, looking down at him from her lofty sitting position.

He chuckled.

"Alright," he said, making a huge play at giving in to a greater force. "But only if.." he let his voice drift of.

"Only if what?" she demanded.

"Only if I can tickle you nonstop!"

Quickly jumping from his prone position, he grabbed his daughter and started tickling her.

Her shriek of laughter would echo his ears for years to come.

He didn't think he would ever get the chance to hear it again.

He was wrong.

She was alive. And they have kept her from him, depriving him of his only child, his only family.

He looked again at the blue sky and then back down at the green earth.

He had almost destroyed this world, and in turn, almost destroying her as well.

All because they kept her from him. He would never forgive this transgression.

A child should be with its parents just as his Carla should be with him. What right did they have to take her away like that?

He sighed. It matters not now. He will get her back. He didn't know how she survived the crash; but she did, and for that he was thankful. And now, it was time for her to go home.

**- - END FLASHBACK- -**

* * *

**_"And fate has led you through it you do what you have to do . . ."_**

"I want an increase in the surveillance of both my daughter and the Quest team," he reiterated.

The affirmative answer at the other end of the line reassured him somewhat.

"All the electronic equipment which you will be using are included in the generous amount I have provided for your services," he said tersely, "I want the video room set up at once."

He walked across the room, listening to the inane babble of this particular lackey.

Finally, he said, "Fail me in this and your fate shall be that of that incompetent fool you have disposed of yesterday."

Silence.

"Is that understood?"

"Very well, Monsieur Colère," was the response.

* * *

**- - FLASHBACK- -**

**_"And fate has led you through it you do what you have to do . . ."_**

He watched as she opened her eyes slowly and with great care. He saw the confusion and the fear evident in them as she stared at him and his companion. He felt her instinctive withdrawal from them and he glanced sharply at the man beside him.

With an overdone cough, Dr. Alain Montrachet quickly asked, "Are you alright, child?"

She looked at the fearfully, suspiciously.

"You are quite a lucky lady," he continued with a nervous twitter. "A blow like that to the head could have resulted in a much more serious damage."

"W-What happened?" her voice croaked. "Where am I?"

The good doctor glanced at him swiftly before looking back at his patient.

"You are at St. Michèl Hospital," he replied. "I am Dr. Montrachet."

Getting impatient, he asked abruptly, "Do you remember the circumstance that brought you here?"

He watched as those eyes looked directly at him before looking away.

"N-Not quite," came her soft voice.

"Can you," he began, glancing at Montrachet from the corner of his eye, "remember anything?"

He watched her brows frown with concentration.

"Mademoiselle," he prompted.

"No," she said even more softly than before.

"How about your name?" he queried, throwing caution to the wind.

He watched Montrachet stiffen, awaiting her response, as the girl made a gesture to answer.

Only she didn't. Instead she closed her eyes in concentration.

"Well?" he asked again, giving a show of impatience.

He heard her sob silently.

"I . . . I . . .My name is . . ." she began.

He saw a tension take over Montrachet's whole body.

She opened her eyes and looked at them pleadingly.

"I don't know what my name is," she whispered. "Who am I?"

He felt Montrachet relax beside him, and felt himself release the tension which he did not know he had until this moment.

"My dear girl," began Montrachet ingratiatingly, "we were hoping you could tell us that yourself. After you have tried to steal the wallet of Monsieur Colère over here during his sightseeing at the garden in the Tuileries--"

"I'm a pickpocket?" she cried out.

Montrachet nodded sadly. "It would seem so, child" he replied.

* * *

**_"I had the sense to recognize that I don't know how to let you go."_**

He watched her by her bedside, drinking in her presence.

She was here, with him.

Several weeks have passed and her memory had still not returned.

He took that as a good sign. He wanted a new life for her, a fresh start. Hence, the need for Montrachet.

He gave an almost giddy sigh of relief.

She was here, with him.

He watched as she slowly opened her eyes. Getting over her initial surprise at seeing him, she smiled carefully before asking, "Have you been here long?"

He shook his head.

"Have you given a thought to our discussion these past few days?" he asked.

She nodded her head slowly.

"And your decision is?" he inquired.

"I will agree to let you . . . help me," she began, "as long as we are in the understanding that I would repay you every franc in the end."

A wave of relief swept over him.

She was here, with him.

He looked at her pride-filled eyes and the determined curve of her mouth before nodding.

"Have you given a thought as to what we shall call you?" he questioned. "We cannot keep calling you 'girl' all the time, you know."

She smiled and nodded.

"I would like to be called Siann," she replied, "Siann Jacobsen."

He frowned.

"Any particular reason you chose such an unusual name?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"It would not leave my head, Monsieur," she replied in a perplexed voice. "But it is a pretty name, non?"

"I guess it is a good name as any," he commented. He stood up. "Well," he said, "I must be going."

He felt him grab at his hand.

"You will come back, yes?" she asked hesitantly.

He smiled.

"But of course," he replied before disengaging from her and walking to the door.

For some reason, his heart felt lighter.

She was here, with him.

And for the first time in almost a decade, the cloud of loneliness that hung upon him seems to have disappeared.

**- - END FLASHBACK- -**

* * *

_**"Every moment marked with apparitions of your soul . . ."**  
_

Jean-Luc Rénard looked carefully at the woman who had become his sister not only through the law, but through spirit as well. She was staring at him intently, awaiting an answer to her query.

"I'm quite alright," he insisted for the second time. "The ditch I landed into was not very deep."

He saw her brows frown. He had a feeling that she disbelieved his whole story of falling in a ditch but he was thankful that she didn't pursue it any further.

"You are in pain," she stated plainly. "Perhaps it is better if you have them look at those ribs in the hospital, yes?"

"It is just a bruise, Siann," he replied. "I know what a cracked rib feels like and this isn't it."

"Luc," she said with pleading eyes, "you do not look good at all. Maybe --"

"No!" he exclaimed. "And that is my last word on that. Respect my wishes, Siann, the way I respected yours when you came home bleeding two days ago."

He watched her withdraw from him, not just physically but also emotionally. He watched as her eyes shuttered behind a blank look.

She took a deep breath.

"Will you at least stay in bed and recover for awhile," she asked softly. "You look very tired."

He looked at her closely before agreeing.

"I'll prepare dinner and bring yours to your room," she continued.

He was about to refuse such treatment when she interrupted him.

"Leave it be, Luc," she stated tersely.

He nodded slowly before heading to his room.

It had been a long day and he _was _tired.

* * *

"This is not your concern," stated Jonathon Quest. "It is my choice."

Benton stared at his son's eyes, willing him to give in.

"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" he demanded. "That woman is NOT Jessie! When are you going to admit to yourself that she's --"

"I know that, Father," his son interrupted him, his voice tight. "This has nothing to do with--"

"The HELL you say!" he shouted furiously. He tried to calm down, knowing that this is not the time to lose control. "Tell me something, Jon. If this . . . woman . . . did not have red hair or green eyes or any of Jessie's features, would you have had Hadji searching the streets of Paris for a glimpse of her?"

Jon stared silently back at him.

"I thought so," he said softly. "I thought so."

He watched his son's fist clench before they slam down against the dining table. The ensuing silence that followed the clatter of the dishes was thick as he watched him struggle with his emotions before slowly looking up at him.

"It's not what you're thinking, Dad," he answered with a sick smile. "I'm not going to suddenly start making claims about how she's my long lost best friend." He paused, looking out through the window. "If there's anything I've learned throughout all those sessions you had Hadji and me attend, it was that the Jessie we knew and loved was dead." Looking back at him, he continued, "And I can't bring her back no matter what."

Jon shifted his feet, looking at the ground. "This thing," he began again, "I know it's not Jessie, but the fact that she looks like her makes me want to get to know her." He stared at his father's eyes. "Can you honestly tell me that if you saw someone who looks exactly just like Mom walking down the street, you wouldn't do your damnedest to meet her?"

Silence.

Benton sighed.

"And aren't you just a tiny bit curious to see what she's like?" insisted Jon.

Benton sighed again, finally looking at his son directly.

"Yes," he replied, resigned. "I am."

Jon smiled.

"She's beautiful, Dad," he said slowly, "and caring." He grinned. "She almost beat me up with a spoon when she thought I was harming a child."

Benton nodded, and then broached the subject he knew would have to be tackled eventually.

"Have you thought of the Bannons, Jon?" he asked. "Do you know how this is going to affect them?"

Jon began shuffling his feet and Benton smiled sadly. At this moment, Jon reminded him of the Jonny of the past. The Jonny who got in so much scrapes and who had to explain how he got into them.

"I was thinking of not mentioning it until later," Jon replied quietly.

"Lie to them?" asked Benton, raising his eyebrows.

Jon shook his head. "Not lying exactly," Jon said carefully. "I mean, they don't have to meet her right away, do they?" He shrugged. "In fact, we don't even know if I'll see her again after this."

"I don't like it," he stated adamantly.

"Look," Jon said, "this Siann person could take one look at me and decide that she doesn't ever want to see me again or be reminded of how we met. Why put the Bannons through this when nothing might come out of it? As you said before, this is _not _Jessie and seeing her might only hurt Race and Estella more."

"I still don't like it," he stated.

* * *

**_"However swiftly moving I'm trying to escape this desire . . ."_**

He wondered if there was a penalty for lying by omission.

"Dad," he said, almost wheedling. "We'll tell them about it eventually. Just not now. Think about it, they're happy. It couldn't hurt to keep them in the dark longer until . . . until we're sure they can handle it."

"My friend," interrupted a voice behind him, "you are perhaps underestimating their resilience in handling difficult situations. This_ is_ the Bannons we are talking about, yes?"

Jon turned to smile at his adopted brother.

"What's the use of dredging up painful memories for them and ruining their vacation?" he demanded. "The girl is not Jessie as both of you have reiterated to me. Is there really an immediate need to tell them about her?"

He can see that his father and Hadji were reluctantly agreeing with him and he sighed with relief.

Maybe it was wrong of him, but for some reason, he wanted to protect Race and Estella. That couple has been through a lot to get to his point, and he would hate to see anything change their current status. He grinned inwardly at the reversal of status between him and Race, then frowned as he realized something. No matter how much he confidently reassured his father regarding his feeling for this double ringer, he knew how easily it would be to let Siann be Jessie. In fact, his mind had started doing it the moment he saw her. Which is why he would really, really like to meet her again, perhaps get to know her. Knowing her would hopefully distinguish her from his Jessie.

His Jessie.

He grimaced.

The fact that this look-alike can replace Jessie so easily had brought him several pangs of guilt. He felt as if he had betrayed Jessie's memory in a way.

And maybe, just maybe, he had.

**_"The yearning to be near you I do what I have to do . . ."_**

He turned to Hadji.

"Well," he asked, "do you have the address?"

Hadji nodded.

"Just one more thing," said Hadji. "You are not going there alone. I am coming with you."

"Look, Hadji," cajoled Jon, "I don't need a baby-sitter. I'll be fine--"

"Did I mention that I received an update from the police regarding their search for the sniper?" interrupted Hadji. "It seems that they have found who they think to be the sniper."

"What!" gasped Jon. "Why didn't you say so? Let's go to the precinct and ask him some questions."

"I am afraid," Hadji said, restraining Jon's eager sprinting, "that you would have to go to a much higher authority to question him."

"Huh?"

"He is dead," he stated.

"Dead?" repeated both his father and Jon.

"Dead," reiterated Hadji. "They found his body in the Seine. It would seem that his gear was strapped around himself. The ballistics report indicates that the weapons he had with him matched the bullets which were fired in the café."

Silence.

"That's very convenient, don't you think?" said Jon skeptically.

"That is exactly what Race said," answered Hadji. "I believe he is now searching for more answers. He wants the police to tell him of any information they might have as to who murdered this man."

His father nodded.

"That's probably a good idea," he said, frowning.

Hadji turned to him.

"Which is why I thought it prudent to accompany Jon to his little . . . visitation," he added quietly.

Jon began shaking his head.

"Look," he said, "I can take care of myself --"

"We know that," put in his father. "However, it is better to be safe than sorry; therefore, it is better to have Hadji with you than for you to be alone."

He shrugged.

"Fine," he gave in, looking at Hadji strangely. "Let's go," he said, walking to the door.

Hadji stood still for a second before making a move to follow him.

* * *

**_"The yearning to be near you I do what I have to do . . ."_**

"Good luck," muttered Dr. Quest

Hadji turned to look at him quickly before following Jon outside. He did not think Dr. Quest meant for him to hear that comment. However, Hadji commiserated. For some reason, this whole situation felt like a mission, a quest if you will, for which will require not only skill, but a whole lot of luck as well.

He looked at the darkening sky and hurried his stride to match Jon's.

"The house is not going anywhere," he said conversationally.

Jon ignored him.

"Would you mind telling me why we are in a hurry?" he asked, trying again.

Jon sighed. "Maybe we should have taken the car," he said.

Hadji did his best imitation of a snort.

"With these kind of streets?" he asked. "This kind of traffic? It would be easier to get there on foot."

Jon nodded, not breaking his walk.

"Jon," Hadji said after long minutes of silence. "Jon."

Jon turned to him. "Yeah?"

"She's not going anywhere," he said quietly.

Jon stopped. "I know that," he snapped.

Hadji looked at him squarely in they eye. "Do you?" he asked.

"Yes!" said Jon, agitated. He placed his hand -- the one connected to the uninjured arm -- inside the back pockets of his jeans. "Rather, my head knows that." He gave his trademark lopsided grin. "But my heart, Hadj . . . my heart's not listening to my head. And right now, my heart says 'get there before it's too late.'"

* * *

_**"And I had the sense to recognize that I don't know how to let you go . . ."**  
_

'Like last time,' he thought to himself, but he could see Hadji almost read his thoughts.

"Last time was no one's fault, Jon," Hadji said softly. "No one's but Rage's."

He grimaced. "I know that," said Jon, "and you know that and my dad knows that and Race and Estella know that." He turned away. "It doesn't change the regrets, Hadj; it doesn't change it one damn bit."

They stood there silently for awhile.

"What if I ran after her immediately after that fight, Hadji?" he asked, not really sure whether he wanted an answer or not. "What if I talked to her and maybe . . . maybe even apologized? Would she be dead right now?"

He felt Hadji's hand touch his shoulder.

"No one knows the answer to all the what ifs of life, Jon," he stated quietly. "But everyone knows how futile it is to entertain them."

Jon gave a forced and bitter laugh.

"Yep," he said lightly. "Damn right."

He turned back to look at his friend and brother. "Well?" he asked. "Let's go! The day's not getting any younger, you know."

Hadji nodded to him and they continued on their hurried pace.

* * *

**_"I don't know how to let you go."_**

The house looked peaceful, situated in an isolated area. It was surrounded by flower gardens and trees on the side. The nocturnal sounds dominated the night and lent the area an almost ethereal quality.

They looked at each other before simultaneously stepping forward.

Jon gave a hesitant knock after a brief look at him.

The sound of footsteps can be heard from the opposite side of the door before it opened.

Hadji felt the beating of his heart deafen his ears as he slowly looked at the smiling woman standing under the arch of the door way.

"May I help you?" she said, her voice soft and melodious.

Beside him, he heard Jon mutter something under his breath.

"Jessie."

* * *

Rage watched the scene in front of him with an almost stoic stance. The surveillance equipment gave him quite a view of what was taking place.

_It has begun,_ he thought. _It has begun._

_

* * *

_

Revised October 10, 2004


	15. Chapter 14: For That Second Chance

Author's note: Song interwoven in the chapter is by Sarah McLachlan

* * *

**The One and Only Jessie Bannon – A Jonny Quest: The Real Adventures Fanfiction**

**by Akane-Rei **

_**Chapter Fourteen: For That Second Chance**_

_**

* * *

**_

**- - FLASHBACK- -**

**_"Spend all your time waiting . . ."_**

THIRTEEN YEARS AGO

"Jonny, are you ready?" a voice penetrated his consciousness.

Jonny Quest looked behind him and found Hadji looking inquiringly at him. He looked back outside through the window he has been staring at and gave a little shrug.

_Dammit, where are you?_ he thought. He adjusted the black suit he wore, uncomfortable at the feel of the formal attire.

He felt his friend approach him from behind and join him in his solitude.

"It is a beautiful day," Hadji commented.

They watched as rows of cars approached the driveway. Jonny stared intently at the arrivals.

"Are you looking for someone in particular?" Hadji asked.

Again, Jonny continued to stare.

_This is not funny, Jess_, he thought. He looked at his suit. _I can't believe you actually succeeded in getting me in this get up.  
_  
"Dr. Quest and Race are probably waiting for us downstairs," said Hadji.

Jonny braced his palms against the windows.

_Not funny at all_, he thought.

"Jonny," entreated Hadji. "It's time."

"I'll follow you out," replied Jonny tersely, still staring at the driveway.

_Definitely not funny,_ he thought.

He felt more than heard Hadji sigh behind him as the Sultan of Bangalore slowly walked towards the door. He closed his eyes for a second and then continued to stare.

"I'll be out in a minute," Jonny continued.

He heard the door click behind him as he let out a breath he's been holding.

"C'mon, Jess," he whispered. "Don't let him win."

He continued to stare at the driveway.

"Show up," he begged softly. "Tell them it was all a mistake."

He waited.

He pounded his fists softly at the glass window.

Seconds passed. Minutes...

"Show up," he whispered again. "The good guys are supposed to get the happy ending."

Again, there was no change in the scenery. No new car arrived. No new person entered.

"Jonny," he heard his father's voice muffled through the doorway.

Giving the window one last look, he opened the door and met his father.

"I'm here, Dad," he said. "Sorry to keep you guys waiting."

He saw his father nod as they both headed away from the room.

Giving the door to the room one last glance, he cringed and slumped his shoulders.

_You're supposed to show up, Jess,_ he thought. _You're supposed to show up here and tell us it was all a big misunderstanding.  
_  
He heard the click of his and his father's shoes as they walked towards a huge hall. He stared up and saw the number of people seated in ordered rows. He saw the beautiful flowers that decorated the room. And he saw the closed casket in the middle.

_I'm not supposed to be attending your funeral_, he thought.

**- - END FLASHBACK- -**

* * *

PRESENT DAY, PARIS  
_  
**"For that second chance . . ."**_

"Mademoiselle Renard," said Hadji smoothly, ignoring his friend's small blunder. "Allow us to introduce ourselves," he continued. "My name is Hadji Singh and this is my friend—"

"Jonny," interrupted Jon. "Jonathan Quest.," he corrected, extending his hand in greeting.

Hadji gave his friend a sideways glance and faced the woman in front of them as recognition dawned in her eyes.

"The men," she said softly. "You are the men from the cafe."

_Amazing,_ he thought. Her face, her hair. He was surprised the word 'Jessie' did not come out of his mouth the way it did to Jon.

She shook their hands in greeting and opened the door wider, letting herself out more. She gave a self-deprecating shrug as she presented herself.

"I'm quite sorry," she said, laughing softly, "I am normally much neater than this."

Hadji and Jon smiled, seeing the oil paints that stained her ragged jeans.

"On second thought," she pondered with mock seriousness, "this is the way I usually am."

"We hope we are not interrupting anything," began Hadji, his eyes dancing merrily.

"Ah non, non, non," she said softly. "I was just finishing up," she continued with a vague gesture inside her house. She gave them a shy smile. "I've asked before, but...can I be of help to you gentlemen?"

Hadji felt himself give a quick smile in return and answered, "Actually, mademoiselle, we came to ask you a few questions regarding that said incident by the cafe." Thinking a little to himself, he added, "If you do not mind that is."

She nodded her head slowly.

"But of course," she answered. "Although, I do not know how much of a help I can be to you. The police have already asked me their questions and I don't believe I had that much to contribute in regards to being an eye witness."

Hadji looked at Jon in perplexity. Their eyes both communicating their confusion on the fact that the police records they were able to obtain showed no evidence that a certain artist known as Siann Renard was ever questioned.

Jon gave his usual quick grin and replied, "We are conducting our own investigation of the matter. The police have a lot in their hands already and we wanted to make sure that no stone was left unturned."

"I am more than willing to help you," she responded energetically, turning to him. "Your actions prevented Michèl from being harmed and for that, I owe you a debt." She smiled. "It is highly probable that you saved his life."

* * *

**_"For a break that would make it okay. . ."_**

Jon felt his face flush at her praise and at the same time called himself all kinds of idiot. He was blushing like a schoolboy. Not quite the image he's used to.

"It was nothing," he stammered. "I mean, well...not that Michèl was nothing but that...I mean that anyone would have done the same." He can feel Hadji watch him with amusement. He can almost feel his friend's laughter.

He saw her smile and shake her head gently. "I don't think so," she said gravely. "And I'm sure Michèl's parents are more than grateful, too."

Her smile. It made him feel warm inside. Strange, that.

A slight breeze blew, and he watched as the wind played lightly with her hair. He saw her shiver slightly and tuck her red hair behind her ear. Was it his imagination or did she seem to suddenly close up? A distracted look entered her eyes and he noticed her hug herself.

He watched her glance nervously behind before looking back and smiling at them. With a slight hesitation in her voice, she offered, "Perhaps it is better to talk about this inside? You both must be cold out there."

He glanced at Hadji before giving her a warm smile.

"Thank you," he said softly.

He waited for her to step back as she opened the door wider for them. With a burgeoning trepidation, he entered her home.

And for some reason, for the first time in many years, he felt like he had really come home as well.

* * *

**- - FLASHBACK- -**

_**"There's always one reason to feel not good enough . . ."**  
_

He entered his room, feeling wan and gray. He shut the door softly behind him and leaned back against it, his hands bracing himself against the knob.

Funny how everything seemed different afterwards. He wouldn't have thought so, but the presence of people actually does make a difference in how you see things. There's something intangible about a presence that affects the way you look at your surroundings, at yourself.

He gave himself a self-deprecating grin. Now he was starting to sound like Hadji.

At the thought of his friend, his grin disappeared. Slowly, he raised his right hand to his jaw and winced. He could still feel a familiar tinge of pain in his jaw from that night.

Hadji.

Jessie.

He knew he should be thankful. On the surface of his mind, KNEW he should be thankful. God knows what would have happened if Hadji hadn't stopped his crazy dash towards the cliff.

A knot formed in his chest as a voice in his head taunted him, 'You cannot save her.'

The knot tightened.

He wouldn't have been able to save her. And really, he knew that.

The thing is, sometimes, he could swear he could hear her scream. Scream for him. And in his mind, he can see Hadji clutching at him with all his might, preventing him from helping her.

And he, Jonny Quest, was powerless.

Funny how the non-presence of another person can affect the way you see other people.

* * *

Hadji stood in front of his best friend's (his brother, really) door and stared. He had been about to knock at the door and ask how Jonny was doing, but something stopped him. Maybe it was the memory of the blank look in his friend's eyes at the funeral that made him waver.

Taking a deep breath, he raised his hand to knock again, only to pull it back down. He stared at the door again, this barrier, and he knew that it might as well have been a brick wall or ten feet of concrete. He could not reach is friend. Not then, not now.

Sometimes, he himself did not know whether he wanted to talk about what happened or not.

He stared at his fist as it made another failed attempt to knock.

_You cannot save her._

There are times when his own voice that night taunted him over and over.

_You cannot save her._

He leaned his head against the door softly, and braced himself with his palms. He closed his eyes, but he knew he would not be able to escape it. He would remember the look on Jonny's eyes at the funeral. He would see his friend's blue eyes in his mind, and in that instant, those eyes would be filled with blame. He saw this blame. He saw it and accepted it.

Pushing himself against the door, he stood and started walking towards his own room. His movements were jerky, belying his calm facial expression. He knew that Jonny resented him deep down for interfering, for stopping him from following Jessie. Just as he also knew he would have done the same thing over and over again, given the chance.

But that was not why he accepted Jonny's accusing stare.

The truth was, he knew deep down that had he done things differently in the beginning, he would not have been attending Jessie's funeral earlier that day.

**- - END FLASHBACK- -**

* * *

**_"And it's hard at the end of the day . . ."_**

She led them to the parlor, silently thanking the fact that Pierre had taken an early night. The presence of these men would have made him ask more questions.

She was tired of his questions. She had some questions herself, but he didn't seem to have the notion to answer it. Besides, Pierre would worry. He was born worrying and this would only make him overly concerned. She sighed. Sometimes, Pierre is even more over-protective than Luc ever was.

"Would you like to have something to drink?" she asked them as she seated them. "Coffee or tea?"

"No, thank you," both of them said at the same time.

She smiled. There was something about these two that made her feel at ease. It was strange, really. Perhaps experiences such as the one at the cafe have a tendency to give people a common bond. Perhaps she just liked them because they thought of Michèl at all at such a time. Or perhaps she was just thinking about it too much. Whatever it is, she liked them. And deep down, she knew she would trust them.

She trusted them.

She shook her head at her fanciful notions. It's absurd, of course, to think that you can trust someone, strangers really, at such short notice. She wasn't a trusting person by nature. But these two . . . there was something about them.

"Are you sure you don't want anything to drink?" she asked again as she sat on one of the chairs.

She watched them nod.

She folded her hands in her lap and tilted her head to the side.

"So, messieurs, how may I help you?" she asked, going straight to the point.

* * *

**_"I need some distraction . . ."_**

He stared at her under the bright lights of the living room. He green eyes were serene as she stared at them inquiringly.

Green eyes. Her green eyes were the exact same shade of green as--

_Jessie,_ he thought.

He caught himself. No, not Jessie. Jessie was dead.

But as he stared at her green eyes, he found himself forgetting. He was getting sucked into a void of memories. He can see in his mind the times he and Jessie and Hadji had traveled and laughed --

_Green eyes sparkling_

--And cried.

Green eyes filled with tears

And then there was something else he saw in those eyes.

_Redemption,_ he thought.

Maybe, just maybe, he could find redemption.

"Perhaps you can start by recounting your version of the scene," Hadji's voice came in, interrupting the train of his thoughts.

He saw her bite her lower lip.

"Well," she said, "as I told the police . . ."

Her voice was slightly deeper and her face more mature.

Funny. He never really thought of Jessie as growing old. She has always been sixteen to him. It was ridiculous really. Of course Jessie would have had to have grown up, had she been alive. Yet to see her image superimposed on an older frame took him aback a little.

There were slight differences here and there, but they were still undoubtedly hers. Still Jessie. He was staring at what Jessie would have looked like had she been alive. He could see the melding of Estella and Race's features. He could even see Linna in them.

And it was all an illusion. This woman, this Siann, wasn't Jessie any more than all of the women he'd flagged down the streets of Maine. Jessie was dead.

In the back of his mind, he wondered why those words sounded hollow.

Such green, green eyes.

Redemption.

"And that's about it," she said softly.

He shook himself. He missed whatever it was she had been saying. He would have to ask Hadji to recall everything to him later.

He saw Hadji nod his head in acknowledgment as he carefully stood up.

"Thank you so much for your cooperation, Mademoiselle Renard," Hadji said formally to their host, holding her hand up and down once, in the European version of a handshake.

Jon followed suit, grasping her hand with his fingers, feeling their warmth.

Blood pumped through those hands.

"Thank you for your hospitality, mademoiselle," he said gravely.

She smiled.

"It's madame," she corrected gently. "Madame Renard."

He nodded, showing none of the turmoil he felt upon hearing her marital status.

"And you are both more than welcome," she continued. "As I have said, this is the least I can do for the men who saved Michèl."

There was a ring in her finger. How come he didn't notice it before? He stared at the gold band intently.

'Well, well,' he thought, 'what do you know?'

He had to admit that he had never thought of Jessie as married either. She was a year older than him, but he had considered her his peer.

And when she died, she just stayed that way. It was strange to think of her as married.  
_  
But she's not Jessie, is she?_ a voice taunted at the back of his head.

That's right. She's not.

"Jon and I would be taking our leave now," he heard Hadji say. He felt his friend give him a nudge and a look.

It took him awhile to notice that he still had Siann's fingers in his hand.

"Oh," he muttered. "Oh!"

_Smooth, hot shot, real smooth._

He gave a quick start.

_Where did that come from?_ he thought.

He quickly let go of the hand and stepped back.

"Sorry," he said lamely. What was he thinking?

He could feel her glance at him nervously, peering at him from under her lashes. He berated himself under his breath.

"I am sorry for my friend's behavior," said Hadji. "He is usually quite well-mannered."

He glared at his so-called friend before turning his attention back to Siann.

"I can apologize for myself, Madame," he said engagingly. "I'm afraid I was quite distracted tonight and for that I am sorry."

She smiled as she led them to the door out.

"That's quite alright," she said. "I hope I was able to help you a little in your own investigation of the matter."

* * *

**_  
"Oh beautiful release. . ."_**

_"Smooth, hot shot," I said, "Real smooth."_

_I gave a wry grin._

_Jonny._

_I'm here._

_Can you hear me?_

* * *

**_"Memory seeps from my veins . . ."_**

Siann gently ran her thumb through her other fingers.

Warmth.

She had felt warmth.

When he held her hand that one moment, that one long moment, she felt warm. The coldness that had been her constant company these days . . . it had disappeared.

How peculiar.

"Again, thank you for your hospitality, Madame," said her dark-skinned companion.

She nodded, still deep in thought, as she watched them walk away from her home. She stared at Monsieur Quest intently.

Jonathon Quest.

She touched her face with the hand he held.

Warmth.

There's something about the American . . .

* * *

**_"Let me be empty and weightless and maybe . . ."_**

_There's always been something about Jonny._

_Ever since we were kids, there had always been something about Jonny that made me like him. For all intents and purposes, I was quite ready to do the opposite when I first heard about him. He was, after all, one of the reasons my father couldn't spend all his time with me._

_But then I met him. And there was something about him that just . . . touched me. In his eyes, I saw a loneliness that was reflected on my own._

_Oh he would never admit to having it. And it's true that I rarely saw this side of him. But, in those rare occasions, something in me wanted to reach out and comfort. At the same time, I knew that by doing it, I would have also received comfort._

_Tonight, when I heard his voice, I felt that same need to reach out._

_There has always been something about Jonny. Whether it was his inherent good nature or something intangible . . .with Jonny, I had always thought I had found a kindred spirit. A best friend._

_And later on, perhaps something more._

_I looked around the walls of my prison and I wonder when I'll ever see him again, trapped as I am now. Will he find me from where I am? Will he know me, the person that I've become? Sometimes I wonder whether I'm just a shell of the real me. Whether I'm still me, the one who's traveled all over the world and had grand adventures, the one who kicked some major as- erm.butt in Quest World, the one who tried to live life to its fullest. Sometimes I wonder if being in prison for over a decade erases all that about you._

_Please, Jonny, please recognize me._

* * *

_**"I'll find some peace tonight."**_

Siann tilted her face up to catch the breeze as she stood by her balcony. She felt good. In fact, she felt more than good. She had not felt this . . . tranquil, yes, tranquil, in quite a while. It was the feeling she gets when she knows she can sleep, and sleep undisturbed.

She didn't know why, but she was sure, there would be no cold dreams tonight.

And so, she leaned forward on her balcony railing and savored the night.

* * *

_**"In the arms of an angel."**_

Race Bannon stepped into the living room and frowned at his daughter, who was happily sitting on Benton's lap as she pretended to read the newspaper before him.

"Young lady," he said in a mock stern voice, "do you know what time it is?"

Linna looked at him with her big green eyes and smiled impishly.

His heart melted.

She raised her arms up at him as she gestured him forward, her legs dangling from her position.

"Time to sleep?" she asked innocently, her head bobbing up and down, as if spurring him to agree with her assessment.

"Yup," he said cheerfully, picking her up from Benton.

He could see Benton smile in wonder at her and he felt a tug at his heart.

"But I'm waiting for Uncle Jonny," she explained slowly, looking straight in his eyes.

He shook his head.

"Nope, you're not," he said. "You're going to go to sleep."

Benton smiled at their conversation.

"But he'll be here any minute," insisted Linna. "He just went to see a girl."

Race's eyebrow perked up.

"A girl?" he inquired with a slight intonation in his voice, directing his gaze at Benton.

He could see his friend's face flush.

"Anything I should know about, Benton?"

He frowned as gave him an almost panicked look before replying calmly.

"I'm not quite sure about it either. I believe it was a woman he met at one of the cafes here."

"Oh?" he asked, his voice going another pitch higher, remembering what Estella had told him that morning.

Benton nodded, going back to his newspaper.

"Benton," he said in a threatening note. "Spill it."

Race watched as his friend looked up at him from his reading.

"Actually," he began, "I would tell you more about it, but like you, I'm not quite as informed about this woman as I would have liked."

Linna squirmed from his grasp and made a head dive into Benton's lap.

"But he'll be here soon, yes?" she asked, plopping herself down and directing her gaze at Benton. "Then we can ask him all about the pretty lady."

Benton smiled. "And who told you she was pretty?"

Linna grinned. "Uncle Hadji said so," she declared. "I asked where he was going and he said it was to see a pretty lady."

"He did, did he?" commented Race nonchalantly, still watching Benton's face.

Race sighed. It was clear from Benton's stance that he wasn't going to get any further info on the girl Jon and Hadji were supposedly out seeing. There's something not quite right about the whole situation. Normally, when Jon or Hadji expressed even the slightest interest on a woman, Benton usually is the first one to tell him. In fact, his wife has often commented on how they remind her of gossiping hens.

"Does this have anything to do with," he paused glancing at Linna, "a particular incident at a cafe?"

"Perhaps," answered Benton from his reading, "though as I said, I'm not quite sure about anything at the moment."

Race nodded.

"Can I wait for Uncle Jonny to come home?" asked Linna politely from her position on Benton.

Race shook his head.

"Oh no, you don't," replied Race in a mock stern voice. "It's past your bedtime as it is. Go run along and say good night to your mom," he urged.

With a forlorn expression, Linna jumped down from Benton's lap and nodded her head. She gave her father a pleading look. "Five more minutes?" she asked precociously.

He shook his head.

She gave a deep and abject sigh before wrapping her arms around him and kissing his cheek.

"G'nite, daddy," she murmured in his ear, and slowly walked towards the bedroom. She stopped midway and looked back. "Two more minutes?"

Race laughed. "No, sweetheart," he said. "Go."

Giving him tortured look, she headed towards her mother. Before disappearing from his view, however, she gave him a grin as if letting him know that his strictness was forgiven, and went on her way.

He felt a lump form on his throat as he watched her enter their room. There were times when Linna's mannerisms remind him starkly of Jessie.

He turned to Benton.

"So," he said casually, "mind telling me what's going on?"

* * *

**- - FLASHBACK- -**

**_"Fly away from here . . ."_**

Race watched as Hadji walked away from Jonny's room, without so much as a knock. He paused, not knowing whether he should say something, do something, anything. He nodded imperceptibly as Hadji passed by him, noting the boy's uneven stance. He knew, in the back of his mind, that there was something going on there. There was a change, a tension, between the two boys that was almost out of place even given the current situation.

He gave himself a bitter grin. Of course, it's not like HE had that much experience with what was going on. It's not everyday that he loses his own daughter. It's not everyday that he's had to identify a body as his daughter. It's not everyday that he's had to bury his daughter.

A painful tightness gripped his chest and a familiar blinding pain threatens to overwhelm him. He breathed deeply, trying to regain some semblance of control.

There's so much to do, so many little details to take care of. He can't afford to slip.

He glanced at the door that led to Jonny's room and shook himself. He couldn't help that kid. How could he, when he couldn't even help himself?

With a resigned sigh, he headed towards his own room. He had to talk to his wife.

**- - END FLASHBACK - -**

* * *

**_"From this dark cold hotel room . . ."_**

Jon went back to the hotel with Hadji, alone in his thoughts for the most part. He and Hadji had opted not to talk during the walk back home and that had been more than fine with him. There was too much to think about before he could do anything. His brain was humming. Different thoughts raced through the recesses of his mind.

He wanted to see her again.

Soon.

Maybe it was her resemblance to Jessie. Maybe.

Who was he kidding? Her resemblance to his friend definitely had something to do about it. But that wasn't all. There was something in her mannerisms. There was something subtle, something intangible about the way she talked, the way she walked. It kept bringing to mind his childhood friend.

Smooth, hot shot. Real smooth.

And then, there was that feeling. He couldn't quite describe it. There was something familiar about it. There was something...

He was more than a little surprised when they reached the door to the hotel the Quests and Bannons were staying at. He gave himself a quick mental shake. Following Hadji through the entrance, he stopped by the hallway upon seeing his father and Race in a quiet discussion. His eyes immediately went to his father face, asking a silent question.

His father gently shook his head in response while Race turned to him.

"Well, Jon," he said. "Find anything?"

Yeah, sure I found something. I found someone who looks exactly like your daughter would have had she been alive.

"Well," voiced Jon, trying to recall something Siann said that would allow him to reply truthfully. His brain was drawing a blank and he looked at Hadji for help.

"Not much," Hadji replied for him. He sat down at the opposite chair facing his father and Race as he continued, "It seems that the woman in question saw no more than any of the other patrons in the cafe. It is another dead end in regards to the sniper."

Relief pouring through his veins, Jon nodded in agreement with what Hadji had said. He had told his friend/brother that he did not intend to let the Bannons know about their little double ringer at the moment and he had been afraid of a premature revelation. He didn't want any of the Bannons hurt. He didn't want to bring them back memories best left forgotten. The Bannons had been through a lot this past decade and he was protective of their happiness. Despite the strength he sees radiating in their family unit, he wanted to make sure that there were no complications in the future. In some deep part of his soul, he felt that he owed them that.

Race nodded, accepting Hadji's word. A teasing glint, however, entered his eyes.

"Is that the _only_ reason you boys went there to _personally_ talk to the girl?" he asked suggestively.

Jon blushed, but not, he was sure, for the reasons Race was coming up with at the moment. He cursed himself for his inability to control this particularly involuntary reaction. This condition seems to be occurring now more often than not.

"Of-of course it is!" he stammered indignantly, trying to preserve whatever dignity he might have left in the wake of Race's knowing nod. He watched as Race stood up from the couch and started whistling as he walked to his room. At this very moment, he felt like a fourteen year old boy again.

"If you say so," commented Race before ducking his head to his room.

Jon faced his father's disapproving eyes and Hadji's understanding ones.

"I'm going to bed," he announced suddenly, wanting to be alone.

"Jon," his father said sternly. "What happened?"

Jon looked at Hadji pleadingly.

"You go on ahead, Jon," said Hadji. "I will inform our Father about the meeting."

With a grateful smile, Jon went to his room.

* * *

**_"And the endlessness that you fear . . ."_**

Hadji looked at his father wearily.

"I don't know quite what to say, father," he said slowly. "On the surface, what happened was exactly as I said."

He leaned back to the chair closing his eyes.

"Below the surface," he continued, "I believe that that is another matter entirely." He sighed quietly and looked at his father intently. "She looks very much like her," he said quietly. "I'm not sure whether that is good or not for all of us."

His father nodded, slumping his shoulders.

"I can't stop Jon from seeing her, can I?" he asked rhetorically.

Hadji shook his head nonetheless. "I do not believe so."

A silence descended upon both men before Hadji finally interrupted it.

"I believe I would like to get to know her as well," he said carefully, staring at his hands.

His father nodded and replied, "I know."

* * *

**_"You are pulled from the wreckage of your silent reverie . . ."_**

Jon stared at the city from the window of his room. He touched the glass pane, running his palm over the smooth surface, feeling its coolness. The city of Paris lay before him, but what he saw had nothing to do with the City of Lights.

He stared at the window, seeing his reflection, and then past it. Instead of the cover of the night, he saw a bright, sunny day. Instead of the busy lights of the streets, he saw the rows of cars that were parked by the people who arrived to pay their respects. And within the silence of his room, he heard his own voice from long ago.

_Dammit, where are you?_

_C'mon, Jess, don't let them win._

_Show up and tell them it was all a mistake._

He cringed.

_Show up. The good guys are supposed to have the happy ending._

The knock on his door interrupted his train of thought.

"Come in," he called out, his voice hoarse. He gave a quick glance to see who it was before quickly returning to his original stance by the window.

There was a moment of silence between the two men before Hadji cleared his throat.

"It is strange," Hadji said softly, "but at this moment, I can almost imagine us at the Quest Compound, with you by the window, and me, over here shuffling my feet."

Jon smiled.

"You never shuffled your feet, Hadj," he said quietly.

He could see Hadji's reflection nod in concession.

Another moment of silence passed.

Finally, with a sigh, Hadji said, "This is not the end of this matter."

Jon let out a breath he had been holding. "Did you expect it to be?" he asked.

Hadji tilted his head in one side. "No," he admitted, "but I had . . . hopes."

Another silence. Jon could hear the clock ticking from out side the room. He even noticed his own ragged breathing as he continued to stare at the window.

"Where will you be tomorrow?" Hadji asked.

"What do you mean?" he responded.

"Will you be at the cafe, or at her house?" Hadji asked deliberately.

Jon smiled. "You know me too well, my friend," he replied.

He let out another long breath and leaned his forehead against the window.

"I'll be at the cafe," he said, after careful thinking.

Hadji nodded. "I believe I will join you at this endeavor from time to time," he said softly.

Jon turned around quickly.

"I don't need a chaperone," he let out vehemently. "I'm not going to go crazy--"

"I know you are not," Hadji interrupted calmly. He stared at Jon's eyes when he said, "I am going for myself."

Jon swallowed, staring at his friend. He wanted to object, to claim that this was his right, his privilege, but no words came out of his mouth. Finally, he turned back to the window.

"As you wish," he said, almost to himself.

Hadji lingered in the room for a moment, before quietly exiting.

* * *

SEVERAL DAYS LATER

**_"You're in the arms of the angel may you find some comfort there . . ."_**

_She's not Jessie._

Today was the day. He could feel it in his bones. She'll come today.

She has to.

_She's not Jessie._

Otherwise, he knew he would go insane with frustration and actually go to her home again. This time, without an excuse handy.

_She's not Jessie._

He had to see her.

Just to keep assuring himself that she does exist, that's she's flesh and blood. That he hadn't been dreaming up the past couple of days.

_She's not Jessie._

He watched the children play by their usual street corner, taking comfort in the fact that he saw the boy, Michel, in their little group.

_She's not Jessie._

He glanced at the streets, observing the people as they pass by the cafe. His eyes were always searching, searching, searching.

_She's not Jessie._

HE DIDN'T CARE!

He didn't care!

He didn't care.

He knew, he KNEW it wasn't and can't be her.

It didn't matter.

She was his redemption.

He glanced back at the crowd as something caught his eyes.

A red ponytail beneath a cap. A slender figure.

He watched as she approached the cafe with a jaunty stride.

_She's not Jessie._

He watched as she looked up and her eyes met him.

_She's not Jessie._

He watched her eyes sparkled with a dawn of recognition.

A warm hand gripped his soul.

* * *

Revised October 10, 2004 


	16. Chapter 15: Flirting with Fate

Author's note: in an effort to finish of this really old fanfiction of mine and renew my love of JQ:TRA, I've been revising previous chapters to help inspire me to finally put in prose the new chapters. As a result of these major revisions, you will find some major changes regarding some of the previous chapters; more specifically, I have deleted the insertion of some poems and songs which I considered to be "fillers." There are two reasons for this: a) they did not add to the chapter in question; b) it just got to be so hard to make the story flow with some of the songs and poems I've chosen. This made the story longer to write because I would end up deviating from my outline.

I hope the revisions are to your liking. And so, after over two years of hibernation, I give you the next chapter of…

* * *

**The One and Only Jessie Bannon – A Jonny Quest: The Real Adventures Fanfiction**

**by Akane-Rei **

**_Chapter Fifteen: Flirting with Fate_**

**_

* * *

_**

The streets were crowded, as usual, on a bright Saturday afternoon. Siann could hear the lazy chatter around her and she let the noise whirl around in her head. This was why she lived here. She loved the people, the sights, the whole ambiance. She loved walking in the streets, seeing the children and feeling the sun in her face. It was an inspiration that fed her artist's soul. And right now, inspiration was definitely something she needed.

She winced, remembering her argument with Luc that morning. As always, his over-protective streak rose to the occasion and reared its ugly head. Ever since Pierre had passed away, Luc would get into phases where he seemed to want to control her every movement. He would demand constant reports of her whereabouts and such, which in itself really wasn't too bad. What was bad was the fact that there were times when he would have the gall to actually try to forbid her to go anywhere.

It, of course, did not help that she was involved in some shooting incident the last time he had asked her to stay home. Oh how often he had brought up the incident as an example of why it would perhaps be a good idea to stay home on that day. She shook her head. Sometimes, he did not understand her brother-in-law. It was him (and Pierre, of course) who encouraged her to have the nerve to pursue her art and display her works in public. For God's sake, it was Luc who encouraged her to make her first public appearance. Ever since that incident, however, he had been…strange. Most especially so after the shooting at the café this past week. She bit her lip. She really wished that he would worry less about her.

As she walked towards her favorite café, she adjusted her cap just slightly. Paranoia or not, after the press conference, she had made an extra effort to hide her face when she was in public as Luc had bided her to do. Looking forward to sitting in her usual outdoor spot for a dose of people-watching, she paused mid stride when she noticed a familiar figure sitting by the café patio.

_Jonathan Quest._

All thoughts of Luc flying out the window, she felt her heart skip a beat. She watched as his eyes met hers and, for that brief second, she let herself pretend that the light in those blue orbs were meant for her. It really was beautiful to see the radiance shine on his face. Unfortunately, she had a feeling that Monsieur Quest had another woman in mind, a woman name Jessie in fact, when he looked at her. The resemblance must be uncanny for him and his friend to be so bewildered at her presence.

She saw him rise from his seat when he spotted her, and in a moment of indecision, she debated the merits of joining him and hesitated before she approached. She would be lying to herself if she said that she was not interested; however, neither was she interested in being some sort of substitute for another woman. Not to mention the fact that their meeting was under such unique circumstances. She gave herself a mental shake as she approached him. She was getting ahead of herself. It was not as if he has _said _anything to indicate he had any interest in that direction.

She was, however, a student of human nature. And, she would again be lying to herself if she claimed that she perceived no interest from his end. She sighed. There it was…the temptation of possibilities. Ah well. Perhaps this was one of those times when she should let Fate guide her through. Maybe. She looked back at him again.

_Idiot! _she mentally berated herself as she caught him staring at her uncertainly. He was probably wondering by now why she was standing here, still as a sculpture, gaping at him. She had lingered too long. She shrugged her shoulders. Well, nothing else to do but brazen it out, she supposed. After all, what harm would it do to join him at this time?

"Bonjour, monsieur," she greeted as she approached his table. "I regret to inform you that you are occupying my favorite seat in this café. Therefore, being the gentleman that you are, you can do no less than offer it to me as a gesture of goodwill," she said with a deadpan expression.

He chuckled. Oh, he had a nice chuckle. _Damn!_

"But of course," he replied, moving to the side and pulling the chair back. "It would be an honor if you would join me for lunch."

She grinned at him. "Your generosity knows no bounds," she stated with all seriousness, accepting the chair and his hand as he helped her in place. She could not believe it. Was she actually flirting with the man?

He flashed her a roguish grin and her heart did a strange sort of flip. _Oh yes,_ she thought. She would bet money on women falling over that one. She tried to reprimand herself. This was so not what she needed at this time.

"I could do no less," he replied, kissing her fingertips before releasing them.

She felt her face flush. Was she actually blushing? Hmm…perhaps she would have to revise her opinion of impetuous American males after all. She watched him seat himself facing her and could only admire at the grace in which he carried himself. She saw his self-conscious furtive glances towards her and a thought came to her head. She smiled at him, knowingly, "Tell me, Monsieur Quest," she began.

"Call me Jon," he interrupted her. At her sideways look, he continued, "Please."

"Very well," she acquiesced. "Tell me, Jon, what brought you to this particular café at this particular day?" She stared at his eyes, noting his quick glance away before meeting her gaze.

She watched in silent amusement at the red flush that covered his face. Interesting.

"One would have thought that your previous experience would have kept you away," she continued. Perhaps she was gaining some unholy amusement at his discomfiture. "And yet, here you are."

He smiled sheepishly.

_Jonny always had a nice smile. _

She gave a mental start. Now where did that come from?

"I must admit," he replied, his eyes twinkling, "that I had been hoping to see you."

Hmm…

She gave a mock gasp. "You mean this is not a coincidence?" she exclaimed, fluttering her lashes in an exaggerated manner. "Why, Monsieur…how forward!" Yep, she was definitely flirting.

He gave her a wry look. "Madame," he answered, "do you enjoy tormenting me?"

She smiled at him. He really was quite good-looking. _Ah, Pierre,_ she thought. _This one would have given you a run for your money._

She could almost hear her late husband's growl of indignation at that thought.

_Surely not, _he would have exclaimed. _I thought I was the only handsome man in your radar._

She would laugh in response and claim that while she was married to him, she wasn't quite that blind.

She blinked at the memory of that often-played conversation and sighed. Now was perhaps not the best time to be dwelling on her past. She looked back at her present company and his merry gaze. There was something about him…

She relaxed her guard…slightly.

And, for the first time since seeing him in this café today, she gave him a truly genuine smile. "No," she finally replied to his query, "but I have a feeling that you need to be teased more often."

* * *

Jon grinned at her. As strange as it sounded, he was enjoying himself. He didn't know what he really expected upon actually seeing her at the café. But the truth of the matter was, he did not expect to be having…fun. He had thought to talk to her, maybe even learn about her a little, all the while basking in the presence of a ghost. What he didn't expect was to be infected by her humor. What he didn't expect was, for a brief moment in time, he had not expected to forget that she looked like Jessie.

"Some people would agree to that," he conceded to her assertion. He saw the slight wariness retreat from her eyes. He had not expected to actually _like_ the woman apart from her resemblance to his past.

"I was hoping," he continued, "that we could get better acquainted under different circumstances."

Was that too forward? More importantly, did she think it was too forward? _Ah, Quest, you are so out of practice._

Her eyes sparkled. "I do not know," she replied teasingly, "whatever will we do for excitement without the threat of snipers in the midst?"

"I'm sure I can think of something," he assured her and he winced. _I'm sure I can think of something? _Did he just say that? Maybe that didn't quite come out the way he wanted it to. If her raised eyebrows were any indication…_Great going, Quest_.

She laughed. "Really?" she asked merrily. "You don't say?"

He flushed. Again. There were times when he would give anything to have Hadji's dark coloring. "If I may start over?" he entreated. "Bonjour, my name is Jonathan Quest. I am here in Paris for a much needed vacation." He looked at her expectantly. "This is when you tell me your name and why you are in Paris."

"Alright," she conceded, having pity on him, perhaps. "I will play your little game. Siann Renard," she offered her hand. "I am here in Paris because I am lucky enough to live here." She gave him a look of pity. "Is this your first time on our beautiful City of Lights?"

He shook his head. "I've been here several times," he answered. "But mostly on business. This is the first time in a long while that I've been here just for…fun."

"Oh?" she prodded him, as she made a motion to one of the garçons. When one of the wait staff approached their table, she turned to him to say, "_Café, s'il vous plaît_." She turned back to him. "Are you one of those," she continued in a hushed whisper, "workaholics?" She looked closely at him. "Because if you are, I must tell you that I can no longer see you. To go to Paris for the sole purpose of working," she made a dramatic sigh, "it is sacrilege. The artist in me rebels at such a thought."

He laughed at her antics. "Surely, you will take pity on this poor, uncouth American?" he cajoled. "Perhaps if I had you as company…"he let his voice drift.

"Nice try," she grinned, as she received her drink. She held the cup with both hands and gently blew at the steaming mug.

And at that moment, her child-like gesture brought home to him more than anything her resemblance to Jessie.

_Goddamn it._

He had been succeeding, albeit barely, on trying to think of Siann Renard as just…Siann. As soon as they started to talk, he was able to shove Jessie in the back of his mind and try to dedicate his attention to the beautiful woman in front of him.

Not that it was too difficult. Siann, for all her teasing, kept him on his toes. She was funny, witty, interesting. He had a feeling that even without her resemblance to Jessie, he would have found himself enjoying her company.

The trouble was (and there really was no way of getting around this circle) the fact that she looked like Jessie. When all was said and done, he was here, sitting in the café with Siann, because she looked like Jessie. And, as he stared at the woman in front of him, he wondered for the first time if his being here was fair to her. For that matter, was it fair to him and his father and brother, and the Bannons? A belated pang of guilt swept through him. He would be the first to admit that the only reason he sought her out was her resemblance to that long ago memory.

_Did you see here again?_

He gave a silent toast to his long-suffering shrink. Yes, as a matter of fact, he _did_ see her again. And not only did he see her, he was actually having coffee with her in Paris while they made small talk.

He must have a little too long in his thoughts because the next thing he knew, Siann was giving him a strange look.

"Is something the matter?" she asked, her head tilting in one side. "Do I have foam in my mouth?" Her tongue snaked around her lips.

Was he staring at her in his reverie?

He shook his head and forced a smile. "No, no," he assured her. "I was just…lost in thought," he finished lamely.

She gave him a teasing smile. "Am I boring you, Monsieur?" she asked flirtatiously.

"No!" he declared hastily, aghast at the thought. "No," he repeated more softly.

She gave him another strange look. Hell, he deserved it. Once he started really thinking about Jessie, his balance usually got shot.

"Are you alright?" she asked carefully, a worried frown on her face. "No after effects from the incident before?"

"Huh," he mumbled, looking at her quickly. "No," he started, "I mean…yes, I'm okay and no to the after effects." He let out a breath. He was babbling. He had to be. She must think him an idiot. "I…I should tell you something," he started. He wanted to be fair. To her. To everyone.

"Oh?" she replied with an arched brow.

He took a deep breath. "You…you look like someone I used to know," he said steadily.

She gave him a wry grin. "I sort of figured that out by myself," she said gamely with a tilt of her head.

He gave her a startled look. "Huh?" he said stupidly. He shook his head. Great, Quest. Just great. "I mean to say," he began again, mentally trying to kick some sense into him, "is that how was it that you knew?" There. That sounded reasonable.

She gave him an enigmatic smile. "Well," she replied, a thoughtful look in her face, "it must have something to do with the fact that you have called me by another name previously." She gave him a gentle look. "She must be very special."

_Special._

**-- FLASHBACK --**

When did it first start? These feelings of tenderness that went beyond friendship? The healing of his heart? The heady feeling of euphoria at her touch? The warm glow of happiness in her company?

As he stared at her retreating figure, beyond his brother's shoulders, he wondered.

When did it first start? This aching tightness in his chest whenever he thought of her? The slight awkwardness in his thoughts that caused him to stutter? The flush of embarrassment that inevitably resulted from catching her gaze? The uncontrollable urge to…to hit something, more specifically, someone whom she may happen to smile upon?

He winced at the memory of her tears. Sometimes, he knew, he carried on the teasing way too far. But in those cases, never, never had he seen her cry. If anything, he would have expected her to tilt her chin up in defiance while she gave it as good as she got.

When did it first start? The unreasonable thoughts of rejection? The white-hot fires of jealousy that licked his veins? The need to lash out, to hurt, to retaliate? The need to do anything as long as it kept his mind of his own jumble of thoughts?

"I am sure she will be receptive to your explanations tomorrow," Hadji said in a quiet voice. "Perhaps you should take a break yourself and give yourself time to think about… everything. Things will look better in the morning."

He closed his eyes for the moment.

When did it first start? When did Jessie become special to him?

He opened his eyes and found his father and his brother staring at him. A thoughtful expression entered his father's eyes.

"Why don't we all sit down by the fire and have a cup of tea before we get back to the camp?" his father suggested, a hopeful look in his face.

Taking one last look at the exit where she disappeared, he allowed himself to be led into the circle of his family. A place where his emotions were more manageable.

**-- END FLASHBACK --**

A small, sad smile appeared in the corner of his mouth and his blue, blue eyes held a far away look.

"Special?" he repeated under his breath, almost to himself, that Siann wasn't sure if she heard him. "Special?" he repeated, louder this time.

She watched as memories passed familiarly through his eyes before he gave her a regretful look.

"Yes," he replied. "She was that." He looked away from her for a moment, his eyes refusing to meet hers.

Not for the first time, she wondered at the woman she resembled enough to cause so much discomfort.

Her eyes fell to his restless movements. His hands took turns running his fingers through his hair before settling forcibly at the table in front of them. A lost look crept across his face.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"What do you mean?" she asked, although she was afraid she already knew the answer. She could see it in his guilt-ridden face. Again she wondered if she was willing to risk her heart for the attentions of a man who saw her as nothing more than a mere memory. She gave a startled gasp.

Her heart? Whoever said anything about her heart? _Mon Dieu!_ This was _coffee,_ not a romantic interlude.

And yet…wasn't that why she was here? When all was said and done, wasn't she sitting here, having coffee with him in hopes of opening the door to other possibilities?

He looked up at her with his conflicted eyes.

And once she saw the deep sorrow that hid in those depths, her hands slowly covered his while she cursed God for His gift of compassion.

"It's alright," she whispered gently with a thread of disappointment. "I think that I know."

He shook his head, whether in denial to himself or her, she didn't know.

"I understand," she told him, trying to hold his gaze. "It's okay," she emphasized. She wasn't sure whether it was herself she was trying to convince or him. She, more than anyone, knew the power of memories. With a brief sigh of regret, she said a silent goodbye to any thoughts she may have had of an impending romance.

Again he shook his head. "No, you don't understand," he said, firmly now. "I want to be fair. And honest."

She nodded, attempting to follow his train of thought.

"I want you to know that I sought you out, searched Paris for you, because of your resemblance to her," he explained.

She bit her lip. Yes, she quite knew that. Now.

"But," he continued, "I would like to get to know you better. You. Not her."

She looked at him intently. Her silence must have spoken to him, hinted at him things which she left unsaid between them. He gripped her fingers tightly and she stared down their entwined hands.

His warm hands.

"Please," he said lowly, "knowing this about me, I would like you to give me a chance."

She licked her suddenly dry mouth. "I don't know I could stand to be a substitute," she said slowly.

"Just a chance," he repeated, "to separate you from her." His earnest face looked up at her hopefully. "I'd like us to be friends."

She gave him a weak smile. Friends. Of course. The one male since Pierre's death whom she actually began to consider in a romantic light wants to be friends. To add insult to injury, he more than likely wants to be friends due to her resemblance to someone else.

"Friends," she repeated, a smile pasted on her face. "Of course," she replied brightly. "Why not? One can never have enough friends," she babbled.

A relieved smile curved across his mouth just as she mentally slapped her forehead. She must be insane. It was either that or she was a sucker for sad stories. And she was sure, as she looked across the table and into those blue eyes, she was sure that there was a sad story behind them.

To be continued.

* * *

Revised January 4, 2005 


End file.
